#wordgasm
It was raining over clouds
I found he is searching to get a shelter
He never lost a hope
What triggered him to attempt his best
As he walked every mile
He heard a soul speaking to him
Just as he heard, it was me standing in pain
He felt we need to move on
Irrelevant even if what it may
Just as he heard my cries
He took a lead to show me a shelter
and
He left himself alone in rain forever
Jun 7, 2020
Jun 7, 2020 at 7:21 AM UTC
Rearranged my cupboard
Nothing mucky was found,
But,
To get control of the situation
Sometimes,
To get through
I do that too!
Arrows lacerates,
Like those unspoken words,
That we were supposed to express
Once!
That were meant to be heard,
Once!
Eventually they got off track,
And with each passing epoch
Resentment stays.
Feeling crouched,
Tried walking on the green grass
Barefoot.
But for how long
Will I be able to crawl,
I thought
Reminiscing,
And just drawl.
I might not know the reason,
Maybe I'll find it someday,
Till then,
Let me search for truth,
Veracity
In every single way.
Mar 2, 2020
Mar 2, 2020 at 1:25 AM UTC
this is how i'll let you go:
i'll open our photo albums for the last time, touch the yellow edges where your body ends, and not get drunk on what we could have been. i will wipe the coffee stains you left in perfect circles; sometimes, i pretend that they had the color of your eyes when the sunlight hits them. i will scrub your fingerprints off my spine; it's time for them to let me go too — slower, gentler than the way you did.
i will pass by your street, and not send you a bunch of paper rings engraved with all my overused metaphors. i will not hope you'll chase after me, wearing them over the promises we've broken, and over the promises we're yet to break. i will stay up late; midnights are somehow still for missing you, but i won't be writing anything. and we both know it kills me — not writing poems about you, when loving you and losing you are the closest things i ever got to call poetry.
instead, i'll hold on tight on every word that spills out of my mouth, seal them all in a trinket box buried in some place where we let romance die. i will fall asleep next to our cemeteries, wet from the rains we made; i might wake up at 3 am and not think of calling you. and i will wake up at 7 am, when it's still raining, and i will watch the early morning thunderstorms, and i won't wish you're back with it. i will sit there, free from the damp coffee stains and from the traces of your kiss. my tailbone will no longer recall the intricacy found in your fingerprints, and my eyes — they will have forgotten if yours were cobalt or turquoise or electric blue, 'cause darling, maybe it's too late to make you love me again, but it's not too late love myself.
Sep 24, 2019
Sep 24, 2019 at 7:46 AM UTC
sometimes, we all wish for the world to just stop spinning for a while; that we remain sixteen or nineteen forever — just dreaming of painting the marmoris of the sea and seeing it displayed in a museum. just dreaming of browsing bookstores — each book sinking into your effleurage, until you see that cream-colored cover with your name on the spine. just dreaming of hearing a song from a stranger's car, and call it your own. just dreaming of creating stories out of piano keys. just dreaming of discovering a star.
at least, if the world stopped spinning today, a dream can remain as a dream forever. it will never be another thing we messed up. it will never be another dream we lost.
Aug 12, 2019
Aug 12, 2019 at 2:01 AM UTC
nothing i do will you bring back;
not the shoebox of purple hyacinths
watered by the i love you's
i still wanted to say.
not the prose poetries i wrote you
whilst caught in a mania
in the restrooms of dying gas stations.
not the caving in of the see-through walls
mixed with static humming of the payphone calls.
not the pillow telegrams that smell like
bourbon and my mother's cigarettes;
darling, my bed has become a post office
of the letters i never had the chance to write
and of the things i never
had the chance to say.
and nothing i say will bring you back —
not even this poem, and i know that now;
i just don't know
how to live with that.
still, nothing will ever bring you back
and darling, watching you fall out of love
feels like the only thing i can do right now.
Jul 26, 2019
Jul 26, 2019 at 6:33 AM UTC
And maybe all I need is my 30-year old self to come here right now and tell me that everything will be okay, and that I made it.
— “I would’ve totally done that for my 13-year old self”
Jul 22, 2019
Jul 22, 2019 at 11:26 PM UTC
Tell a little girl that her coily hair is beautiful when all of her playmates think otherwise. Marvel at a little boy’s drawings when everyone else he shows them to is too busy to spare a glance. Compliment someone’s floral dress in the subway; compliment someone’s smile, someone’s art, someone’s cooking, someone’s gumamela flowers soup they made especially for you. Thank someone for the songs they introduced, for the songs that now have become your shower jams and lullabies. Tell someone that you think they’re amazing and smart, especially if they don’t think so of themselves.
In a world where everyone looks past a street singer and ignores the old man painting sunsets in a park, be that someone who isn’t afraid to tell people about the beautiful things in them. Be that someone who isn’t afraid to be soft to others. Be that someone who isn’t afraid to be kind.
Jul 3, 2019
Jul 3, 2019 at 1:17 AM UTC
And with her,
it’s not just
making love.
It’s making
poetry.
Jul 2, 2019
Jul 2, 2019 at 10:24 AM UTC
you are so much more than the days you can't create or write anything.
those days where you lift your pen, press it against the emptiness of the sheet. those days where you are drenched in the skies' grayest clouds and the colors and lines won't sew you a silver lining. those days where the spines of your favorite books hold no magic. those days where inaction and emptiness will swallow you whole. those days where sunsets are just a discord of colors, and the night skies are just a discord of stars, and the poems are just a discord of words and you, just a discord of vacuums — you are so much more than all of these days. and today, it's okay to not be able to create anything.
today, it's your turn to be the art — it's your turn to be the poetry.
Jul 2, 2019
Jul 2, 2019 at 3:31 AM UTC
I.
And to all of them,
you were but
cigarette breaths
and endless voids
and a hopeless heart
and a damaged soul.
II.
And to me, you were
reckless roses
and lips that taste like
twilight skies;
you were a soul beautiful
in all its bleakness.
III.
But now you’re the north
and I’m reduced
to a broken compass.
And maybe after all,
they were right
and I simply never was.
Jun 26, 2019
Jun 26, 2019 at 8:01 PM UTC
if we're all about
lazy, blanket-cuddles
mixed with Radiohead songs
and missing breakfast
in the morning,
if we're all about playing
Russian roulettes with
our anxiety triggers
and chasing them down
with *****
if we're all about
untouched calendars
and jokes that aren't funny
and telling them anyway
and not saying
i love you's,
then,
i love what we're all about.
i love not saying
i love you's
with you.
i love this
kind of us.
Jun 13, 2019
Jun 13, 2019 at 2:32 AM UTC
The melodies I hear are filling the void
And the golden stardust is slipping in my veins
What secrets you hold, Oh mighty being?
Your valleys are green and the air serene
So i listen more
The cluster of trees is whispering to me
Fly, fly you jester
Your hour is near now wake up
Go no more into the wheels and machines
Let alone the heels and soar through the winds.
May 17, 2019
May 17, 2019 at 1:08 PM UTC
Just because I'm not like you - doesn't make me strange
I may be wired differently but definitely not deranged
I am a glow worm emitting a light when I'm at my best
But for that to come into sight I need my antisocial rest
I blend in like a chameleon when I'm in a crowd
But feel a reckless need to leave when the voices get too loud
Makes me feel like an addict in need of narcotics
Though I'm perfectly normal I get looked upon as psychotic
Just because I'm not like you - doesn't make me strange
I am a normal human being - definitely not insane
I connect with people that are non judgemental
Their place in my life is definitely instrumental
If I don't like you - you'd be sure to know
Coz I ain't the type to put on a show
Feb 22, 2019
Feb 22, 2019 at 4:58 AM UTC
Do you ever re –read your chats with someone just to try and re - live the joy that person brought to you
That feeling,
The wide smiles, the flow of waves from your spine to your belly, those butterflies,
You bite your lips giggling
The blushes in between
Those sweet tear drops, the emotions flaring
How your heart races when you get to a particular word
Then you start stitching those words into thoughts and dwelling in
The sudden wish to be with him
The way he looks at you
The thought of his lips touching yours
How happy it made you feel
You shut your eyes engrossed in passion
There, Then, you realize
You feel it in your heart
He is the One….
You snap out, memories come flooding in
Flashes of moments spent together,
The good, the bad, the not so pleasant.
Your mind gets thrown into a disarray
Could this be mixed feelings or a mind trick,
probably silly battles between thoughts and emotions,
Or a quest to find your truth
You close out every other thing
You beam your focus on that lingering thought
He is the one, He is the one,
The one
Dec 23, 2018
Dec 23, 2018 at 10:06 AM UTC
They tell us we discriminate because of the color of their skin.
An unjustly comment and they only see us as whites.
Stuck between a now cold war between colors.
They paint an image of victimization as they feel unfairly treated in ancestry years.
I say , get over it.
Dec 13, 2018
Dec 13, 2018 at 4:16 AM UTC
How many has marked this broken lover between the sheet and on the streets.
How many has gripped her hips and tasted her lips.
How many has , not once , but countless times degraded her in her bliss , shattered her gift , ruined and wrecked her for her next "knight" .
How many of you will come to realize that many of us still hide.
How many of you , will see.
How many will there be.
Dec 13, 2018
Dec 13, 2018 at 4:12 AM UTC
That night
I saw her struggling with Satan
striving to live a little more
to see him for the last time
That night
I saw her soul refusing to leave
clinging on to the body
as tight as she could
That night
I saw her soul shivering
the long gone strength reviving within her
for the last time
The most dreadful eyes of a human being
The most paranormal vision I had ever seen
May 5, 2018
May 5, 2018 at 2:53 PM UTC
Let it help to show, through your explorations,
How adventurous life's journey can be.
It is sure to take you
towards a brighter destination
One that only the few
boldest seafarers could see.
Jun 17, 2017
Jun 17, 2017 at 3:54 AM UTC
the stories of women you write sonnets upon , or the ones on caricatures
i consume.
they're all fiction to me.
for the women i know are all looking out the window, wandering into endless abyss.
or waiting on tiptoes - to be tied down
in the bonds of 'holy' matrimony.
when they were young,
living on dictums of
father and brothers was an
unspoken, but frequently
enforced trend.
now no longer lean saplings, (who could be stomped upon with ease)
but sprawling, majestic trees
with branches chartering territories
that remain forbidden for the tree.
their offshoots
are sheared (for they can't be crushed with ease)
in the name of honour.
to ebb out all the figments of
rebellion, the tree
might hold in it's gamut.
still tamed in the garden,
a new gardener comes in place.
a slightly younger one, who
comes with his own tenets.
restraining her with a
strap, in the name of modesty.
he satiates himself by strangling
last shreds of revolt
her father couldn't slay.
the woman is caged in bars of shame,
all in the name of honour.
yet again.
why is it that the women i know only lessen with age?
but the men smirk upon,only inflating their slyness. as the years grow on them.
Oct 27, 2016
Oct 27, 2016 at 6:12 AM UTC