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Shruti Atri Jun 2014
those sounds you make
with air and your voice box,
they're all made for me.
the words...that's what you call them.

when you pen down these words for me,
you're knitting my clothes:
black thread
embroidered on white.
always the same always so different.

that's how everyone gets to know me:
with your name, (always) the right fit
like a shoe that goes with every dress

I am the soul of all your creations
that part of your soul
that resides in white
I am all that energy that has bled from you
I am your soul - your soul is in me

I dwell in the blood that sweats through your pores.
I am the thrum of havoc in your veins.
I am the reason your heart beats.
it beats to my name.
you're mine.
you will never forget me.

I am your arrogance
I am the reason butterflies flutter
I am truth, I am redemption
I am lies and smiles
and that story you ache to write...

I am alive in the human touch
that keeps you hurting healing bleeding
tumbling in pain agony hate
through the impossibilities of your humanity.
I give you strength warmth courage tolerance
to go on,
to keep on living
and to keep me alive...

I draw life
from that
weird goofy and frankly whacked out part
of your mind
that thinks
I can talk to you

like

at
this
very
moment...
I thought of some lines by Sylvia Plath & Bukowski while writing this, you might recognize their words.
PS: Please do comment, I welcome criticism as well :)
Sy Lilang May 2014
Lost to backdrops scrolling past,
She sits knitting
in the carriage of a train.
The vague needles
They scintillate and glimpse
With the cadence of the wheels –
Upbeating ceaselessly.

Strips of tiny loops
And eyelets like dewdrops
Of condensation
Grouped on the superior rim.

Once in a while,
She gives a heave
To loosen more yarn from the skein
Of Filipino-made wool,
brushed worsted weave.
Spun and carded
from the richest fleece,
Deeper in the wicker basket by her feet.

The needles flash,
With ancient rhythms and attack
Of duellists in their chainmail coats.
With little hesitation she can tack
From plain to purl to blackberry.
Count back by rote or slip a stitch
While the fish-eyed gimlets gleam.

All gather profusely in her lap,
As windfall trove, rich-patterned
And warm with peach-fuzz nap,
All crafted from a single line of yarn.
Marvels fall continuously from wise
Spell-binding hands and all is well for now.

(9/11/13 @xirlleelang)
It's 10 PM and I can't fall asleep
Try as hard as I may
It's frustrating and I wonder why I
Can't have this energy in the day.

— The End —