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I guess you could call it poetic how by the age of 12 I had no recollection of what happiness tasted like on my tongue. Some would say it was tragically beautiful.
But it was not poetic, nor was it beautiful,  but it was tragic. It was so very, very sad, and that sadness is only doubled now that people see sorrow as glorious.  It is not glorious. It is not strength. It is a lump of iron in your chest and stomach and it eats you from the inside, out and you have no right to think that blood stained wrists are anything other than tragic. So very,  very tragic.
If I said I just needed to hear those words
You'd say I'm a stereotypical writer
Or a totally uncreative plagiarist

In this moment I'm not a poet
Just a broken person starving for acceptance

Rejected, abandoned, worthless
I'm sick of my definition

My heart is longing for your approval
Broken pieces would be repaired
If you would just care

Can't you notice something positive?
I want to be worthy

Am I so revolting
you can't even set your eyes upon me?

I crave a basic sentence
With the same intensity
a drowning man craves air

Fill my lungs with life
Let me breathe you in

Please just say
I love you
 Mar 2014 Shalini Ray
 Mar 2014 Shalini Ray
I'm asleep.
At least, I think I am.
I can't tell.
My eyes are closed, and I'm trying very hard to dream.
My hands are blindly searching for something that's not there.
A television set with a white screen.
A blank canvas with a set of white paints.
A dry erase board with nothing to erase.
A black page in a book, waiting to be written on.
I open my eyes again.
I sigh.
My eyes close once more and I attempt to fall asleep.

((this was actually written a while ago, but yeah.))
 Mar 2014 Shalini Ray
Petal pie
The mirror was tarnished,
It gave her a sepia glow

The reflection varnished,
Memories garnished by sorrow

And with a silver brush
She smoothed away the greying years

Finely powdered gold dust
To cover trace of wear and tears

The mirror was tarnished,
And now brightly shines her beauty.
This was a collaboration between me and r (another groovy poet on here!). Here is his profile please check it out!
 Mar 2014 Shalini Ray
Ian Cairns
The simplicity I'm searching for
Hides beneath my fingernails
Occupies the dark spaces I refuse to frequent
Consumes the sweet fumes I forget to swallow

I've been told I overthink things
It has never been about mountains or molehills
I always see land big enough for shelter
I do not need reasons
This is what worries me
I hesitate all the time
Then I think I know
Then I know I know
Then I see you in public and you're laughing
And I can't tell if you're laughing at me
So I smile
Not because I want to
But because I think you want me to
And suddenly I don't know anymore
But I wonder if everyone else knows
Or if you know
Then I'm back beneath the mountain
Or the molehill
And I don't give a **** about geomorphology
I just want to see you
walk to the highest peak and shout your name
And watch the echos vibrate off my chest
This is what worries me most

What I need
Is the courage to say exactly what I intend
Believe I already own this certainty
Live within the in between
Srinu, you demented little kid
To have you in my life i don't know what good things i did!
You can really take a bad song and make it better
We all know how crazy you are about Helter Skelter
You'd make a better actor than the guy who played Bane
I'm telling you, for the music industry, you're the next Kurt Cobain!
Man I'd love to see you perform 'House of the Holy'
I'm pretty sure you'll never leave the guitar, not even for the Cannoli
When you get hyper you remind us all of the Incredible Hulk
You're the happiest kid I've ever seen; you never sulk!
Your moods are unexpected and its types are various
Your crave for those "SUBSTANCES" is hilarious!
I know that Nirvana has made your Chemistry easier
You can now point out Lithium on the Periodic Table at your leisure
That face you make when you play the guitar is that of a Negative Creep
And when you blush you remind me of Meryl Streep
You lucky dog, you share your birthday will George Harrison!
If you were born during World War II, you'd provide awesome entertainment by playing guitar at the garrison
Over the Hills and Far Away is where you'll have your tryst
A Whole Lotta Love is definitely part of your Wishlist
You're way more electrifying than Angus Young
You set the stage on fire with your guitar skills and singing at the top of your lungs
Linkin Park is your childhood and In The End, it does matter
The Caste of Glass that you're building will never shatter
Your love for Jimi Hendrix is stronger than a dose of Purple Haze
Cuz your love for that musician is true and not just a phase
Santana invented the Spiritual ****** which makes us forget all our fears
Eric Clapton breaks me down into a River of Tears
There's something similar between you and Red Hot Chili Peppers
You're both unique - and i can't find anything else to rhyme so here's the closest - Def Leppard
Continue on your musical journey and people will be dying to give you a chance
One day, the music you create, will put us all in a Psychedelic Trance
I know that when you go
You'll either take the Stairway to Heaven or Highway to Hell
I heaven, you'll be Knockin' on their Door,
If Hell, you'll be ringin' Hell's Bells...
This is a poem I wrote for one of my best friends on his 16th birthday...i made a list off all the bands he loves because he's really into rock music and a crazy guitarist and correlated it to him and converted it into a poem :)
 Feb 2014 Shalini Ray
Theia Gwen
She reads
                                          And she sleeps
                                                      Way too much
                                                            ­           It's her coping defence
                                                                ­               When nothing else will suffice
                                                         ­               She needs to get away
                                                       Without actually leaving
                                             Because she's too scared
                                   And too tired
                                            To leave her bed
                                                      So she cracks open a book
                                                            ­     To escape somewhere far away
                                                            ­             And she'll sob for the characters
                                                      ­                       Whose brokenness resembles hers
                                                            ­                                   And then she'll sleep
                                                           ­                                   And have sweet dreams
                                                          ­              Of realities that are not her own
                                                       Because pretending is so much easier
                                                 Than facing reality
                             So she'll sleep and dream
          And secretly wish she won't wake up
So she can finally escape
One year ago exactly, I awoke to the miserable news that my dear friend, Morgan Helman, was dead. I called her voicemail and wept my goodbyes. I punched the wall and screamed until I thought my lungs would crack. I wrote a poem to express the ravaging anguish I was experiencing, and to try and honor her life. I read it as a eulogy at her funeral. In it, I mentioned a time when she had asked me to write a happy poem. Everything I had ever written was a result of sadness or some other tortured emotion. I apologized that what I wrote for her was far from happy. I told her someday I would a write a happy poem, though I doubted my own words. One year later, I have walked away from the depressed mental state I used to call home. On the anniversary of her passing, I completed this "happy" poem. It's different than what I'm used to creating. It might not be as artistic as some of my other poetry. But it is a vivid expression of the first step in a new direction. This poem is dedicated to Morgan Helman and the legacy of love she left in her wake.

You Are

Resonating laughter
as the child plays,
hallway smiles
on bad days.

Disney movies
when I'm sick,
lightsaber battles
as a kid.

Rope swings
for make believe Peter-Panning,
backyard sprinklers
spraying the trampoline.

Hot soup
after it snows,
Refreshing popsicles
when the sun glows.

Warm cookies
melting in my mouth,
playing cards
at Grandma's house.

Blazing campfires
engulfed in inspiration,
jam sessions
with passionate musicians.

Barefoot freedom
in the grass and on the beach,
Sandy paradise
sinking beneath my feet.

Captivating books
as it gently rains,
favorite songs
when I'm disarrayed.

Intimate poetry
as my soul sings,
genuine happiness
spilling out of me.

Caring parents
whose admiration lasts,
trustworthy friends
who remove my masks.

Comforting arms
when my friend dies,
calloused hands
pulling tears from drowning eyes.

Raw love
strung on splintered wood,
My God
you are everything good.

~ m.w. ~
 Jan 2014 Shalini Ray
The words don't fall anymore
The thoughts have iced like a cold November night
The limericks tell me they miss me
My writing could do with a sweater-
I've stunted my mind.

Some call it writer's block
But the truth is I've just realised-
that there's no point in writing more lies.
Because what are you even supposed to do
When you realise that the best fiction you've ever written is you?
It's the middle of the night and existential crises seem only fitting. I had always wanted to figure out why I had stopped writing before (before I resumed lately again). And this seemed like the only explanation.
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