Do not die tonight
The heart that has become hollow
Is a sacred tomb you once built
Out of broken trinkets and feathers
A wild little girl sleeps
Holding a dream catcher close to her *****
Rain that once pattered against your window
On nights to keep chaos at bay
Now watches over you
The neighbor’s dog howls at the
As the moon dissolves into the ocean waves
Be gentle with your pain Child
Know that yanking out a dozen hair strands
Will not erase ‘self-hate’
Do not stare into a mirror tonight
What you see is not You anymore
Vacant eyes and creaking bones
Your body is now home to another host
A piercing wail echoes through the night sky
And splits the city air
The broken glass on the bathroom floor
Glints like a Sailor’s forgotten treasure
Swimming over the vast red sea, kindling with its own symphony
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.
I sprinkled sunflower petals in the warm water,
to make it gold.
Then dipped my body quietly in the bathtub,
to wash my tainted soul.
The morning light peeked through the lemon coloured glass,
while the fading fate dissolved in the pearly waves of my lash.
My lifted hand reached for the sunlight,
the feeble fingers swayed like dandelions.
A swollen gaze perched on the broken mirror,
a burning sensation impregnated my chafed lips; turning them bitter.
The beauty they preach about is not divine,
nothing in this world stays sublime.
The saffron tinted ancient walls,
kissed the amber tiled floor
Everything fire; everything gold,
yet no power can assuage the murkiness of my soul.
My dear Van Gogh how could you think?
that the yellow, if you eat, will lift your spirits?
Van Gogh's work has always inspired me and his health issues are relatable to an extreme end for me. Most of the time I feel like he is the muse while I create my work.
I am dying.
With the crimson gentle stroll,
of the parched winter glow.
I am dying.
Of the thorns dwelling within the whisper's den,
and the menacing spikes of my broken pen.
I am dying.
From the agonizing tempest that pervaded my soul,
it is no more a riddle; an Apocalypse is born.
If I woke you up last night
My pen told me secrets in whispers
And I carved scars and tales
Of silly incantations and
old fallen trees
Of silver days in summer breeze
and tattered amber sundresses
Of apple bites and ripe grapes
near the broken glass on the carpet; they decayed
Ashes danced on my lips; sculpting poems on my skin
and flicking cigarette on my wounds
Smudged mascara and dulcet memories
Leather fabricated journals of vintage times
hiding crisp carcasses of yellow daises
Euphonious chortles and
early morning smiles
Forgotten tea leaves in the teapot
and ginger bread turning cold
Sun rays, like gold dust, sparkling in the air
Through the tall trees of a forest
hanging on the clouds in despair
First day of Spring, magical it is
like a caterpillar's fate
Silky cocoon, shiny chrysalis,
emerging out as a butterfly
Leaving as old and embracing the new
Igniting the sky over my purple roof
Last night, I wrote poems on my skin and hid the scars.
Carved some stories and spilled ink.
A beautiful mess killed a life within.
Don't give me up that fast.
I may not be worthy of holding your hand.
Rose water and holy smiles,
I'll learn to keep your world bright.
Don't throw the flowers away.
I like to keep them for my sake.
No, I understand.
Little people sleep in sand.
Why are the voices loud?
Can I say what my heart desires?
I can't breathe, will you bury me in white?
Oh! You can't hear me.
The clock ticked, you have a meeting.
Adieu my friend, I shall be leaving.
We are all equally responsible for a suicide someone else commits. For once, just listen.
A night owl in the harvest moon
was awake till the crack of the dawn
but wasn’t surfing online, wasn’t rowing
the boat in the digital river.
Deep down to a dreamweaving scene
that was, in musing, painstakingly creative.
Wait till you snap up a witty aphorism.
The darling buds of May will be in bloom.
The tickled pink nightingale too will
give out its voice, singing a song.
Save a copy and tweet it to all,
but do give us a demo, tell us a bit more.
Where does it shine and sizzle?
Where did the winter tuck away the rose?
This is a poem from my book Zero and One available on Amazon.