Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Daan Feb 2017
Occupied, busy, locking doors,
unwashed hairs, frizzy, always
calculating, almost all days,
memorising, dedicated hearts
mesmerising all possible counterparts.

He came outside today, smelled a flower,
finally left his tower, to play,
as long as his muscles stay fresh,
his flesh away from sour
tiredness, he'll find reasons,
methods to devour our beauty.

Processed, bland, in order,
safely divided, a border,
statistics, graphs and charts,
his mind parts all he wants to know
from where he feels he wants to go.
There is no winning or losing in this situation. He'll live the life he's meant to live until he stops believing that's how it works. No one knows what happens when it doesn't.
Realeboga M Sep 2015
Laying underneath the ***** brown tree I pause.
I hold on to my beating heart and look at you.
Memorising your features from your almond eyes,
To the freckles on your cheeks,
To the pearly whites of yours. 

A smile slowly forms as I feel the heart on my hands beat ferociously.
As I see the holes and cracks in it slowly close.
As I watch the darkness being overwhelmed by light.

I close my eyes just to heighten my senses.
To be able to hear your breathing.
Slow and steady breaths. 
Heart thumping with the rhythm of my own.
Talking in morse code.

I pull my arms out and open my eyes.
I look at the red, muscular object.
Beating hard.
I sigh and look at you.
Almond eyes watery.

"This is my heart, it's not much but this is it. 
You're probably wondering how I'm able to breathe but as long as my heart beats in rhythm and harmony with yours, I'm alright"
I don't know what it is but she makes me happy. Makes me want to give her my entire heart
Prathipa Nair Jun 2016
Bullock carts moving forward
With the music of jingling bells
Women walking like a peahen
Balancing mud pots of water
On their head with a band
Women churning butter from
Milk with the churning rod
Men with their spades to fields
Ready for the ploughing
Boys,with their tool, catapult
Aiming at the juicy mangoes
Little girls running with laughter
To the call of a bangle-seller
Old men sitting in the verandah
Memorising their days of youth
Fruit selling woman calling out loud
Bananas,Apples,Mangoes
Smoke from the chimneys
Like an engine of a train
Red chillies, turmeric and coriander
Spread on sheets in the sunlight
Goats and calves crying out in
Search of their pet homes
Village full of greenery with
Gulmohars, Banyan and Neem
Busy with their daily duties
Happy with no disappointments
The villagers of olden days !
Anon Aug 2016
At first
You meant nothing to me
You were just another one
Another blonde hair, blue eyes
In the back of the room
Just another one
In the sea of insignificant faces
That I would soon forget

But then
Suddenly
You are someone
Suddenly
You are the one
With the blonde hair and the blue eyes
But you are also
The one
With the big dreams
The dead parents
The voices in his head
The large hands and long fingers
The golden streak in his fair hair
And the most beautiful blue eyes the world has ever seen
You are different
Suddenly
I want to be with you
Every waking hour of every waking day
I want to be by your side
Listening to the deep baritone of your voice
Suddenly
I want to spend an eternity
Memorising the handsome features of the face
Suddenly
I cannot bear to be parted from you
You mean too much to me
It came on so quickly
I didn't see it coming
How did it come to this?
How could I have not seen it before?
How could I have regarded you simply as just another one
In the back of the room?
You are so much more than that
You beautiful being
How could you have changed so much in my eyes?
How could I be
Suddenly
Falling for you?
this is for her

tell her how you're no stranger to unrequited love. tell her everything he's going to say, because you've spent months memorising every word he's ever said to you. let her know that she needs to constantly remind him that he is loved, he is wanted, he is needed. tell her how he likes his coffee and how all he wants when he wakes up is to be held. tell her how he'll hold her hand until the day he can't bear to feel her skin anymore. tell her how soon that day will come. remind her not to be scared of losing him because there will be a day he comes back. he always comes back. warn her about his lips and how they'll never want to leave hers. don't leave out how addictive his hands can be, one minute they'll be combing through your hair and the next they'll be at the edge of your pants, while he's whispering in your ear saying " I'm so in love with you" tell her to remember he was yours first. let her know how easy it is to fall in love with him. he will have days where he wants nothing but to say goodbye to everything this world has to offer, you need to remind him how beautiful life can be, tell him you'll never allow him to end his life because he's such a big part of yours (he will become your everything) do not forget to explain to her how precious time can be. when you spend time with him, there's nothing else in the world that could be half as important as the way he lays his eyes on you. he will want to leave, and you will have to let him go. he gets so angry that you'll swear it's fire he's speaking, not english.  he isn't capable of commitment, you will always be his but he will never be just yours. you will never be enough for him, no matter how much you want to be his home, the love of his life, you won't. you'll want to cry, you'll wish you never met him in the first place. you'll want to walk away and never look back, but you won't be able to because as soon as you turn away he takes your heart right out of your chest. he makes sure it's his decision when he goes and when he will come back. if he will come back. you'll want to take his sadness, his hurt and his pain. you'll try but he will never give it up. he will tell you that he is worthless, he is different and he doesn't deserve to breathe and it will **** you. it'll hurt you more than you have ever experienced because no matter how many times you tell him that he is the reason the sun kisses the earth in the morning, he will never believe you.
xpzlol Sep 2018
i bear the cross of faith
tied down to the angels of
Heaven.
He listens to my praises
like the whisper of windchimes.
a tickling of silver tongues.

in the trying times
He burns in my head
a fireball of glory
a lavish thought in my brain.
He instills fear
He instills pride.

we read the words from His Grace
memorising the holy scripture
pretending like we understand Him
pretending like He
understands us.
the loss of faith is lost upon all.

and so as i sing these monotonous
phrases of glory
inside the church of alabaster
i ask of Him a delirious question
and he would answer deliriously.
a consciousness of oneself.

and as i feel my feet on the floor
the gold tiles freezing my soles
i bring into His Grace
a sinner
i ask myself
i reside in a golden cathedral.

i bear the cross of faith
Prathipa Nair Feb 2017
Memorising her childhood days,vacations,grand parents
Grandmother with eyes on road waiting the arrival of her grandchildren
Woke her up the horn of cars getting into the courtyard
Eyes filled with tears of happiness seeing her family
Running towards expecting a grand hug
Busy in their world of technology desisted unnoticed
Grandmother's priceless valuable love for them
Seconds,minutes,hours,days bygone
House filled with members of her family
Where she alone with nothingness of love
Abandoned in a corner with a heavy heart
Patricia Drake Mar 2013
when
did cooking your own jam
from real strawberries
and sugar
become an act
of treason against
equality
between the sexes?

when
did turning off the tv, the laptop, the phone
to play with your children
offline
become an act
of valour and extreme
symbolism
in most families?

when
did reading glossy advertisements
and memorising them
for extra credits
become an act
of duty as a proper
citizen
in the modern world?

when
did choosing an alternative lifestyle
deliberately
and with no concern for wealth
become an act
of excentric
irresponsibility
in an enlightened society?
The warmth of your touch awakens my soul, the charm of your arms shook my inner self,my body aches to a language only you understand,

Im yearning for you as  you drive your hands all over every angle of my body a touch of intimacy

I crave for the taste of your lips in my mouth,  a desire that rushes with a full force inside me

You had me tighter than ever, your hands running through my hair as u softly whisper to my ear
I mumble, as i start speaking in tongues, I remember how much I miss your touch a touch of intimacy I remember how much I you

Sitting down memorising your words
thinking about our old days,  how young we were i miss you my old friend,
chrissy c a Aug 2015
I still remember the first time I ever met you,
I still remember where we were,
I still remember we were right beside each other,
I still remember the way you talked,
I still remember your first girlfriend and the way you used to be around her,
I still remember wishing it was me and not her.
I still remember our inside jokes, and how bad they were,
I still remember the first night we spoke on the phone,
I still remember telling myself to get it together,
I still remember how close we got, 3 years later.
I still remember your sense of humour, and your love to make everyone around you happy,
I still remember how quiet you can get whilst you were thinking,
I still remember the first time we hugged, and how awkward it was,
I still remember the time you came to the airport to say goodbye,
I still remember you telling me how you felt about me, a year later,
I still remember getting annoyed because our times didn’t work together,
I still remember that night that you asked me to be your girlfriend,
I still remember the goosebumps that I felt when I said yes,
I still remember the excitement I feel whenever I get a text,
I still remember the frustrations we felt as the seas put our love to the test,
I still remember the disbelief I felt as I finally flew back and I saw you again,
I still remember the first time you held my hand,
I still remember my fingers memorising your face,
I still remember how you made me feel,
I still remember the way you kissed my shoulders,
I still remember the way you loved me,
I still remember your friends telling me how I made you feel,
I still remember how they told me you were always missing me,
I still remember the way your eyes looked as they stared at me,
I still remember how that made me feel,
I still remember how I cried as I looked at your picture in the plane, the second time we said goodbye
I still remember how our love died, as time passed
I still remember the way our calls got shorter
I still remember how your reasons got longer
I still remember crying over you, no longer of joy, but of pain
I still remember asking the Lord, what is there left to gain
I still remember you giving up,
I still remember my heart breaking,
I still remember demanding you, is this all what you’ve got?
I still remember the last time we said goodbye.
I still remember the nights that made me cry,
I still remember writing it all down as my emotions died,
I still remember all of this a year later,
I still remember how in love our love made me feel.
I still remember how I wished those heartaches were never real.
Guy Random Nov 2010
She’s the end but still not the aim;
All the paths lead to her, may be with different stops;
Though she is unstoppable, will come and is inevitable;
Colours of life draw us away from the truth, diverging our thoughts;

The god of death! Unwelcomed, in spite of being god;
Worshiped! but, prayers are request to delay his arrival!!;
Life and death differ, being known and unknown experience;
As we love life why not to love death?;

Death alone makes person alone, exploring the unknowns;
Death alone ends the curiosity of her being unknown;
Is she the end, and all the worldly secrets would be revealed?;
Or is it an invitation to another world, which then to other?

Spells on her perceivers, realise it her arrival, stopping it on the last stop;
Some worship, some do good, a few remain same 'ignoring it';
Bribing god, trying to avoid painful end, a few 'challenging it';
Other few confident from outside, inside hoping little bad to be overlooked;

People memorising their past, impart their suggestions;
"No point doing this, at this point you will feel all unworthy" says olds;
"We command the whole world, he is commanding us" feel young;
A few analyse correctly and shrink their sack of mistakes;

She treats equally, every living thing, over social discrimination;
Forgetting the end, gathering luxuries, she will apart them!;
Time will make us soil, mortality is thing we will experience;
Our ideas, deeds if useful enough, will be used and remembered;
(c) goyal.madhav@gmail.com
Hiee,
these are my views about mortal law of nature.
All your views are welcomed, and i will love to discuss about them.
You are also welcomed on blogs.
http://deaththeend.blogspot.com/
Take Care
Deona Spiteri Sep 21
People used to say you can see someone's story,
Just by looking deep into their eyes, their soul.
I never understood what that meant, not really.
Until that one day, I ended up seeing it for myself.

That deep aura, in those gorgeous ocean eyes.
Orbs anyone would give anything just for a glimpse.
Nobody realised, or they didn't bother to see the reality,
That girl was drowning in her own gorgeous ocean eyes.

I saw the light in his eyes vanish,
that gentle curiosity I touched upon, banished.
Turning colder, distant, until ashen of a memory remained.
Until I was alone, trapped, and in this world, I was chained.

I finally looked deep, really deep.
Not just in others, in me too.
And oh, don't their eyes weep,
to be seen, and trying to pull through.

I understood now, I saw their stories, deep within.
I glanced deep into their eyes, memorising every piece of their souls.
I truly understood what the life in people's eyes meant.
They say what words can't.

I understood while his eyes brightened,
free at last, beyond this world.
But mine dimmed, bound to the silence he left,
Unable to live without the first light that found me.
This poem seriously took me 3 DAYS.. (which is a lot compared to my usual amount..) anyway, I'm actually really proud of how this came out!! I genuinely think I'm improving in my poetry and I'm proud of it :3
letters were created so humans can communicate, so a person knows exactly what another person is feeling. There are 26 letters in the english alphabet. I've been trying for days, but I cannot arrange those letters in a way that explains how I feel about you. there are endless possibilities but I'm at a loss for words. a lot of people would say it's love. even more would say it's lust, but I don't want you to touch me. I don't want to spend time memorising the way your eyes constantly shift from mine to hers. I don't want to think about your arm around her waist every single night before you fall asleep. I don't want to love. I don't want to hurt. I don't want to be so wrapped up in you, I forget you're already wrapped up in her. I get so high at the thought of holding your hand, but remembering your hand belongs to her is the quickest way to sink.
iridescent Jun 2015
Life's a blank canvas and the artist's sometimes not you, but those who once came into you.

Some have sparks so blinding you almost forget the charred mess they made; some have hands so warm you couldn't resist memorising every contours of their palms that you almost would make a replica of them; some leave lines so intricate yet untraceable you wonder if they were supposed to be maps that lead to somewhere.

Learn to draw on your own and draw for your own. Paint all that is intangible and paint all that you that you could hold. Remember that no one could love you better than you do.
rk Apr 2021
i want to love you
like a lazy sunday morning
staying in bed
taking our time
sipping coffee
memorising every freckle
like the constellations in the sky
white sheets
and tangled limbs
with the scent of a memory
fresh on our lips.
Valerie Feb 2018
i can’t remember a time before i wasn’t caught
in the pearly whites of your canines, or an era
when i wasn’t perforated apart by your cannonballs,
shot down by the bullets of the glistening emeralds
you call your eyes.

i can’t remember a time when my poems
wasn't dedicated to memorising every detail
of your raven eyelashes curving to the sky,
or how the warmth of your palms transcend
the coldness i tolerated in my heart.

i can’t remember a time when i didn’t
have something to lose, and i think that started
when your honey-lidded gaze fall on me in the
middle of a crowded room with too much sound,
but i can still hear the ‘i love you’.

i can’t remember a time when you used to be static
-pure background noise, irrelevant, unnoticed
after all, doesn’t it drive you crazy how much
someone could mean to you?
at first, they’re a whisper in the dark and suddenly-

(boom!)
11 | 31 Poems for August 2017

For some odd reason, I am still sitting here in my bedroom writing about you.
Your heartbeat reminds me of the timeless tune of my favourite melody.
Loving you is like looking at a shattered mirror, and clearly seeing every bit of the broken reflection.
The wind said something about you today, something that blew me away.
I cannot remember any of the words though because I was too busy thinking about you.
I’ve been thinking about you because every part of your existence is beautiful.
Your hazel-brown eyes are a beautiful reminder that God will not forget to look for me whenever I feel lost in the world.
I have spent countless hours memorising the curves of your smile and the lines on your skin.
Including the happiness and joy in the sound of your voice and all the beauty that lies within.
For some odd reason, I am still sitting here in my bedroom writing about you.
How do I write something so beautiful that’s bound to blow you away without having it sound like another poetic cliché?
Loving you is like looking at a shattered mirror, and clearly seeing every bit of my broken reflection.
My words will continue embracing all that I have discovered in myself because of you.
Within your sporadic bursts of laughter, I always find the freedom I had lost.
I will continue writing about you in ink, so that my notepad can finally feel the permanence of your presence in my poetry.
The spaces between my words will always be your place of refuge.
My poetry will continue writing about all that I have discovered in myself because of you.
I will continue to sit here in my bedroom and effortlessly write about you.
The world may read the pages of my soul, but my poetry will always belong to you.
James Gable Jun 2016
Who on earth would stack books like sticks?

Who would sit turning white-paper-pages
With blackened fingertips?

You should know that awaiting fire is nothing of a joke
Have you not heard of witches
on fiery trial, spitting curses
That just tightened the rope

And did you know
That the pages
Of every history book ever written
Once went up
In ancient whispers of smoke?

Every manuscript
Chronicling man’s unscripted
Fighting progression
It was
reduced to ash?

So we wrote it all again…
The Romans, messy, careless
And surely barbarians
We’ll adopt them as our
Ancient parents
Invaders of course,
Progressions must not
Be stifled by sentiment or remorse
The druids and their hoods
They left them among the leaves
In the woods
Before that
Well
No one can prove us wrong
We’ll say that humans
Hunted similar races
That were
Uglier but strong
Defeat, even eating them
Of course
That which stands before you
In physical form
Surely it cannot be wrong
Our history,
As far as we know
Is a tale of endless glory,
Since they tell of victory
In every song

So we’d made a start
The scholars are desperate
To start memorising the dates
Of all the events
That we are still
Required to create
Keep the candles burning
This could go on rather late

The bridges of London
We’ll say were built by English men
And when some malevolent
Invaders burnt them down
We built them up again
We’re resolute by nature
Bordered on two sides
Our land it does not shrink
We have intimidation in our eyes

Well we have all these haunted castles
Shakespeare used them in his plays
Let’s say we were conquered
By Normans
Hand-fought battles went on for days

We should be modest and believable
So let’s say they conquered us, so what?
If our past shapes our future let’s show
The things we are and what we’re not

We’re are a thing that empires covet
Some have tried many times
Our ships with crews that never sleep
Their cannonball
trajectory does not fall
They fly in a straight line

A book that chronicled a fire great
Reducing our capital to a raven’s nest
Sadly it was lost, Pepys wrote so well,
So we’ve told Dickens to try his best

We recreate from memories of books
The pictures help as well
Medieval times were all heads on sticks
It resembled what we’ll call hell

Heaven, that’s where the noble live
Those that were so gallant and brave
falling in their tons on the battlefield
Winged skeletons rising from their remains

The bible, as you know, survived the fire
It continues to teach us and guide
Reminds us of the elasticity of time
And encourages a most conscientious mind

We made adjustments, here and there,
Lazarus rising for example, readers in mind
We couldn’t let that tragic scene end
Without him delivering his warning on time

We think of the greater good you see
For the good of you, and the good of me

The plague, bubonic, spreading like fire
Is a fiction covering something dark and twisted
I can’t begin to describe how as the death toll rose
Our king fled for Belgium as the demons persisted

The history of London is actually unknown!
Well you would moan, but what did you think?
The Thames is a man-made canal they froze themselves
when ice skate sales were on the brink

And bodies that fall in, still alive or dead
They scoop them up, make wigs and cut textiles
The ones still breathing are given the job of
Gathering the bones of the executed neatly arranging them in piles

Jack the Ripper, Member of Parliament I should say
Was in charge of cleaning up east London crime
His method was questionable, objections from
Speakers in parliament, but murders in a year went from 38 to 9

Henry, yes he was large, rotund, had his fun with women,
But each of his wives was ensnared by courtiers in cloaks
They were promised recompense, rewards that never materialised
When they killed him, each time, they picked a lookalike from the village folk

And I’m no historian, but why assume
That soldiers marched all the way from Rome
To what was of little value,
Cold, wet, a far cry from home

No evidence of course,
They just put themselves about
And there’s a good chance,
The Vikings came, you could see bridges,
Burning in their eyes, they arm-wrestled
Journeying on longboats of considerable size

King Charles II had an imagination alright,
Kept the wine flowing alright,
Enquiring minds and lips
Were busied gulping it all down
And kissing women who span madly around
Their cheeks
The colour of rose hips...

Who are these men that hold books under their arm
In such a way as a woman clutches a purse?

They arrive in endless streams conversing in their
Small groups, absent mindedly
Opening and closing books that are in
Different languages,

My turn to take five, look after this place,
I’ll be just out back, chewing my wife’s sandwiches.

I eavesdrop a little, a vice of mine,
Hear them talking about their jobs
On the factory line
Men and machines, men as machines
Or machines made by men, machines
That dream in factory nights,
Locked away and out of sight,
Quietest place you’ll find

But they’re restless,
I’ve seen the machines sigh
I’ve seen the steam that shoots out
As the whistle blows calling time,
They are restless machines and

—The whistle blows and
The machines are wandering home after
Getting blind drunk,
Dreaming…

In a few hours they will be woken
By a jangling set of keys that
Starts them up an hour or two early
So that they are fully operational
When the hungover workers arrive
Beating their chests and
Stretching their lever-pulling arms,
The machines grind their gears in protest,
Become confrontational,
Grinding the axe for a while now,
They’re all worked up, high pressure,
And yet no one takes notice
The steam flowing as promised
The men are ready in wait
A little release of steam
Machine’s are functioning well today


Factories like these run themselves
With their routine set in stone,
you can whine and moan and they will,
Mostly to their wives on the phone
During their allotted break,
You can come back early, but never late,

Echoing a cuckoo-clock world
Of perpetual motion, the machines
Dream of a life outside, they have heard
So much about irons and their boards,
And baths with plugs on a chain,
Manhole covers, oven doors and drains,

The machines do what they were made to do,
Workers too, this job chose them
For their durability, stocky build, the confusion and
absence of revolution in their eyes,
Life’s lustre hides in Friday’s pies,
Yawning men find it in the coffee
*** as it boils on Monday morning,
On Tuesday it will taste like soil again,

And on rare occasions, you’ll see it
When the sun comes through the
Highest window, and eventually,
On the right day, the right time,
it reflects and refracts,
The whole factory is scattered
With light artefacts, as if glass was
Raining down from the sky,
They take five, in celebration of
Their planet’s undiminished charms,
And though a bit longer to enjoy them
Wouldn’t do any harm
They are ordered to resume order
Belts and levers and rivets and arms
Must pull, a few more hours of life
Set to whistles and alarms

Creak! *There’s another dodgy floorboard!

How quaint, we’ve gone back in time,
I can’t reach the books...
*Shall we walk past the pond
On our way to the tailors?
A fine suit, perhaps we’ll
Also need a coat and a pair of shoes
There you are, boy, all apatter with
‘Whats the matters’ and those rainy eyes that
look out but don’t want to be looked into
for too long, drier now, memorising cracks.
Forget those useless stomach-drops you feel
you ought to feel, stand taller, be prouder.
Say goodbye to your knees from me, closer
then, the map of falls that took the gravel
with the breeze that were vision’s blinker-walls.
Thank you for the memories you put away
for rainy days, my repository, the
treasure trove of touchstones you didn’t skim.
Every tear and every maple seed you threw:
I still want to make sense of it all for you.
Ayesha Aug 2021
In you I left a little kiss
A speck on lip of lip.
Like a leaf may
On a leaf spring-coated
Before it slides off and off
And into the brown below.
Like a star may,
On the window of a house
Cold in houses cold.

I lingered by the shores of you
Dried, a bone,
Memorising the hues of
A sweet, sweet marrow—
In sun it glittered, in moon sang—
In you, in you, you.

This restless room—
And ants devour around
With their fast steps and abdomens angry
And a scene of us
Through deep, hardened dirt, I dig out:
You held a garland, of foliage weaved,
I smiled a kingdom
All alive and gold.

And the young leaf will forget
Of the rusty feather
That stumbled past it,
One young dawn—
And the house
In houses lone,
Will sublime
In the day’s pretty love, but

In the blue, a bottled letter—
Too small a gift
For an illiterate sea, but
Hold it it does still,
In its secretive embrace.

So, when you born
To an arid tree—
And in blood of stars I wade
As down descends
The sky we built,
Do not cut open the insects
In your frenzied search for me—
All the kingdoms
Could I smile
In you I left with their riches and green.

Dried, a bone, I
Remember the hues
Of a sweet, sweet fruit—
In blooms it blooms, in stars
On frosted windows
In you, in me, you.
So, when I sway
In this lovely quiet,

You sway too
In the dawn.
And born you
Then born you
And reborn on a spring—
In you lives a little kiss
And wilt you,
It wilts.
10/08/2021
murari sinha Sep 2010
( while taking a tour through those poems readers are requested to keep in their hands,  a feather from the pea-****’s tail )

Volga - 1

there might have been some provocation
on the part of the  rat’s bible  

it is not known when and how
every piece of sleep that spatters  
from the oesophagus of the dip-swimming  
has stick to the c-sharp
of the newly-purchased tooth-brush

the air within the wish-bicycle
figures nothing less

how much is it necessary now
to ****** the blue-hue  with the study
that can be saved by the depression of the Ganges-basin
to develop the snap-shot of the garland-exchange with the
antiseptic cream

would you think it for some moments
my lord
the lord of the market

before sending any secret e-mail
to the cyclone
residing in the room
behind the stair-case
let the Volga be read once more
with all its clothes
and hair-styles

Volga - 2

the winter of the water-canon
oxidised by the fireflies
wants to touch every bamboo-flute
of this soil, it seems

as if it plays
in the body of every cauliflower
the total memorising-skill
of  the blue and yellow pyramid

and if some lines of changes
in the planet be added
the birth-day of the bolster
that goes to the sea
may learn with a lesser effort
the pollen-efficiency of the nail-marked walls

how much should I scold the squirrels
who don’t want to swim
in the still-water of the black-board  

Volga – 3

the green-circuit of the fried-almonds
that was submerged
in the open-hair of the afternoon
the whole-night workshop
has taught
the thumb-impression is to be put
how far below it

if the autobiographies are planted
into the drawer of nature
the solubility of the river-reed
gets it done too late at night

all the plus-signs around
from their etiquettes
come down  

so many foot-notes
caused by the season-changes

so before planting life
to the address of the wall-lamps
it seems the cotton-flower
written by the oceans
began yawning

Volga – 4

to the homoeopathy phial
standing on the traffic-island
why it appears
within her womb
the number of germinated nights
stolen without a kiss
is too little

is then it true
if all the chanting of Harinam
can’t be withdrawn from the alcohol
the body-odour of the running tamarisk-shrub  
will enter into the circuit-house

and that devouring of the parchment
brings to the feelings of the non-veg ant-hills
the let’s-go-cure
gathering in the sauce-island

Volga - 5

coming to this ironed canal-side
every auto-rickshaw  
wants to know and let other know
the mystery
behind  the rice-rain
from the cirrus                                                

the shame in the eyes of the seal containing signs
supplies the whole-sale dealership
of the civil disobedience movement
to the locality

the role of the hammer also
wakes up early in the morning
to put under its own tongue
an antacid

is it possible that the spits
used in the observatory
be made a little more fast-moving

manuscript of the basement of a well

the biography of the pond-heron will be scripted
even-then the productivity of the merry-go-round
wouldn’t be uttered for a moment
no sir, such has never been expected

in the liquefied banana-blossoms
too many hot breads resulted from the season-change
continues to bat  vehemently  
and climbs to the peak of heart-throbbing runs

they in a group will go to the
aqua anetha of the mole hill
to organise a folk-song

to understand this
no arbitration of the cactus is required

notwithstanding
it is heard that the thread was pulled
by the violin of  the wife of the moon-god
from behind the screen

here in the eye-front
is the basement of the morning-well

on its one page lies the faulty  crow-caws
and on another some sun-shines
swinging on the hanger
after some pages in recurring …the chicken-pox … the boot-polish …

within the two covers of the dance-drama
also comes the creepers and herbs
grown around the melting point
of the arm-chair
whose legs are broken

if each pore on the skin of the river-lily
becomes so much known
then in the background of this low land

let us have one game more
Riya May 2016

I'll take shelter in my memories of a fool.
Because nothing hits me harder then the
Emotions when I see you.

You left me broken and ashamed
Nothing left but picture frames
All I know is that I lost the best part of me
When you left me hanging.

I took shelter in the deepest part of my brain.
Remembered how you were before you changed.
You used to smile.
The kind that would light up the whole room.
Now you do nothing but stand in the corner and brood.

I found shelter in a cramped up space.
Stuffed and overflowing with nothing but memories of us at your place.
Do you remember the day we just sat and talked?
Sitting under the grooves of the wall,
Tracing, memorising every little detail
Lord knows I still go over everything
Replaying it over and over again.

If I could do it all over
I know I'd do it differently.
I wouldn't have let you walk out the door
Even if my life depended on it.
I wouldn't have let you crawl into that dark room in your head
You know the one where it makes you afraid,
Afraid that everything is your doing,
That its your fault we're losing.
maddi May 2016
I want someone to love me
like I'm the reason they exist
I want someone to spend hours
mapping and memorising
every inch of me
I want someone to ask me
about my deepest thoughts and desires
I want someone to know all my fears
and all my favourite things
I want someone to look at me
like my eyes are the sun
and my voice is the wind
and my anger is a storm
and my sadness is a
deep
deep
ocean
I want someone to lay with me
and run their hands through my hair
and be pained by how much they love me
I want to be loved so much that I feel it
wherever I go
I want to be loved so deeply
that on my darkest days and even darker nights
the love radiates out of me
and cocoons me in strength
and support
I want someone to love me so much
that they couldn't imagine a single second without me
I want someone to love me like I love them
I want someone to love me.
title not referencing the wonderful song by the 1975, though you should all give it a listen c:

— The End —