Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
i’d rather write about the freckles on your back than think about all of the ways in which you quite possibly don’t love me.

i feel sick at the very thought of you picking me apart the way you did; fingers grabbing and stroking in a catastrophic symphony of skin and vulnerability.

let’s read between each other’s lines; share my sentences and punctuate my paragraphs with your mouth; because i can breathe easier on the mornings where i wake up wrapped around you.

because my moods change like the ******* seasons and the spinning in my head doesn’t want to stop.
                                         you tell me that i should probably get a therapist because no one that thinks about all the ways in which they could **** themselves has an ounce of mental stability.
                                          i tell you that i have been to four.
                                          names faded into a blur with hazy snippets of conversation remaining.
20mg.
                    30mg.
you tell me that trust issues and scars aren’t endearing and i tell you that neither is counting up the potential number of pills needed to dissolve your body into the living room carpet.

let me sink inside your skin and make a home in your flesh;
i tell you about the nights where i lay awake in the bath turning the water red.
                       tragic, isn’t it.

you tell me that this isn’t how my head should work and i tell you that i already know. everything you could possibly tell me i already know.
i know that 400 calories a day isn’t normal, and my hands shouldn’t shake all the time.
                                             i know.
please let me stitch myself into you, even just for a while; until i no longer feel dizzy and my world stops spinning.
i don’t need you to tell me that it will be okay, because honestly i don’t think it will be and, that in itself, is okay.
                                                                ­                 let me stitch myself into you, because my own skin can’t take it anymore.

let me call you back when my voice stops wobbling and my vision straightens out, but honestly, i’m terrified that it never will. what if this is it. headaches and tears and shaking and blood.
                                             and the debilitating, gut-wrenching feeling of pure and euphoric emptiness.

                                              tragic, isn’t it.
 Mar 2018 Supritha
Ciel Noir
Atom
 Mar 2018 Supritha
Ciel Noir
What other kind              of creature could divide        
        Each different thing             into its different sides                
  With chaos versus             order, dark and light
The stark duality of         wrong and right
We even split the very        world in two
With human versus human,       we and you
But still no matter how much      we divide
Each thing has infinitely many      sides
 Oct 2017 Supritha
Nishu Mathur
There we are
Bundles of thoughts and nerves
We plan and script
Burn the midnight oil
Chartering paths and mapping
Defining destinations
But then, life happens

And it will

I suppose I could brood
And close tired eyes
Or I could lasso a cloud
And hitch a ride to paradise
 Oct 2017 Supritha
Clare
Lend me the fabric
of your tears today.
I will weave a tapestry
of undone dreams.
When you remember
To feel it's patterns,
The deep secrets,
Will be yours to seek.
Not words, not woes,
My hopes, I submit
Drink to it sometimes,
A tapestry.
 Oct 2017 Supritha
Clare
The last few evenings have been revealing.

A few discarded mugs,
A few balled sheets
of paper and what not,
A few dreams half painted
on cheap chart papers.
In all that mess, a single voice
soundlessly telling stories...

There was never much to say,
There was never much to hear.

If only living could be
in the number of charts
and balled sheets,
In mugs used and thrown
about a room that reeks
of neglect and disillusionment.

If only living could be
In the monsoon of mess,
In the drought of tears,
In the freezing of feelings,
In the ocean of fears,
In hands that held,
In shrines visited,
In songs of adulation,
In fingers of accusation,
In hopes and desperation,
Or even in lone portations...

I'd say, I've lived a lifetime,
Sure, I feel old.
 Jul 2017 Supritha
Nishu Mathur
Don't judge me by my looks
And don't read me by the books
I am brash and I am kind
I am hard to define
I am bold. I am shy
I am grounded, but I fly
I love, and I give
I cradle, I forgive
Though soft I may feel
I am thunder, I am steel
I am smiles and I am laughter
I am happily ever after
I am tears and I am ache
I am a mess when I break
I hold tightly, but I know
When it's time to let go
I am dove, I am hawk
I am the rose and the rock
I am rain. I am sun
I am I. I am woman



Thank you all so much **
Dearest everyone, thank you so much for your likes, loves, reposts.  Thank you so much for all your wonderful and encouraging responses. This is a small,  simple poem and I wasn't certainly expecting all the attention it has received. I am grateful to all of you talented poets and readers. I am so happy that it was chosen as a daily - it's a wonderful feeling. Love to all.

I am also very thankful to Conrad Druger van den Bergh, an excellent poet and wonderful friend who inspired this x
 Feb 2017 Supritha
vivian cloudy
I watch the water
beam from the sun
and that is what you call
making love
The Earth is the greatest poet I know.
I pluck at her expression
every so often
merely attempting
to translate her lyrics
into something,
just something
we can all feel and understand
My salutes to you, Earth.
Next page