"sketched" poems
I hope I live to see Ed Sheeran, and Taylor swift live, and spend new years in New York
I hope I make the perfect coffee for my future love and maybe even raise a puppy.
I hope my writing actually gets somewhere,
Than just spilled on a random page,
Of a giant internet database
I hope my little quotes and lyrics
Are sketched into teenage journals
I hope I meet my biggest supporter someday, and hang out with them in Disneyland.
I hope everything stops being crazy,
And everything starts becoming clearer
I hope everyday I am alive, I make positive impact.
I hope, I hope
That the Universe notices,
All the times I nearly broke..
Were all the times,
I began to grow.
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 7:00 AM UTC
she has dangerous thoughts
in her hello kitty slippers
she shines when thouse around her can only sparkle
there are dark angels in her stuffed bear collection
shes a gothic stoner emo-warrior princess
she wants to be heard
and its dreamy things shes gonna say
shes sketched in beautiful ways in my heart
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 4:10 PM UTC
Persephone runs amok, her hair caught on tendrils of wind,
eyes lucid as emeralds; aware, alive.
Hope is sketched on her face as if drawn by whoever paints the sunset,
pulsating with the reflection of neon cities, rolling countryside,
the adrenaline-pumping moment before a rollercoaster’s descent.
She is high on happiness, running across her plane of existence
with only her converse sneakers and extraordinary ambitions.
Persephone knows she owes her unbridled youthfulness to Demeter.
Demeter, who is stern but unconditionally loving,
selfless, for when she hears her daughter’s plea for food she stops
her spoon midway through a bite.
When Persephone struggles with the perpetual torture of arithmetics,
Demeter’s sheer intelligence is astonishing, the iridescent reflection of
Persephone’s aspirations, for a problem to Demeter is merely
a hidden solution, a failure only a victory in waiting.
If only Demeter knew how her words are of the highest value,
her pleased smile the only affirmation to a job well done.
Her love cradled in the nook of Persephone memories,
every moment she is infinitely grateful to co-exist,
grateful for the Universe to award her the simple pleasure
of loving her parent with purity and stripped of conditions.
As Persephone runs, she glances back for a mere second,
in her smile is the mirror of her naivety,
she still believes that her Gods will save her from being a slave to
the inevitable corruption on Earth and Olympus,
for she is sure her untarnishable love for Demeter is her protector.
Yet, you know how the story goes.
In an instant, Persephone is falling into the Underworld, on the back of a beautiful monster into inescapable darkness.
But even then, she holds on to Demeter in thought and in prayer.
After adulthood, marriage, queenship, a childhood gone in a flash,
after her hands become worn with calluses, her face a series of rivers,
her mind expansive, her goals reached, Persephone knows she owes her unbridled youthfulness to the first person she ever loved.
I love you Dad, Happy Father’s Day.
Jun 23, 2020
Jun 23, 2020 at 10:45 AM UTC
Your face is etched with grey
And yet I love the smile you place on your lips at times
Your heart is sketched in silver hues
But I am able to swim the oceans of those deep blue eyes
Skin deep emotion
Leaves you naked to me
I will wrap you in my essence
And hold you close
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 2:32 PM UTC
In a dream every cloud contains a moon
pulling me out of the dream into Sunday-
awake every cloud contains a leopards eye
directing the snow cat to a stream.
I swear in a previous incarnation i drank
from the same waters and this leopard is
the distant offspring of my feline sons
and daughters. Our eyes meet and lock
once and we are sketched into the
narrative of each others dream.
Dec 30, 2011
Dec 30, 2011 at 9:25 AM UTC
A mirror is never just your reflection,
My mother once said
The mind has this devilish way of
Twisting
Things around
Making then a lot more or a lot less
That what stands before me
Suddenly
My face isn't my face anymore
Instead
I stare blankly at a blueprint
Society itself has hand-sketched
For me.
Post-it's on where things had gone wrong
Scribbles on things I needed less of
Highlighters on places I needed
Brighter brights
Thinner thins
And I just stood there
Watching
As these self-proclaimed architects
Unraveled
The plans they had for a body that wasn't theirs.
Accepting
The new rooms they had drawn next to the ones that already existed,
The ones that were always there
The ones I made a home out of,
The mole on my ear
That never seemed out of place
Until,
The impact of a critical post it told me so.
The place where my thighs met
I've always ignored,
Assuming I was normal
But the scribbles that
Begged
For less of me,
Proved otherwise.
The marks of stretched skin
I considered battle scars over a few calories at a buffet table
Nullified
By society's architects
Disapproved
As if it were up to them
Invalid
Like human came in the form of overruns
But I stare at this blueprint that suggests to change me from
Floor to floor
Head to toe
And wonder
If the one who owns the lot in which I am
Wonder
If He wanted to change me anymore than them
If He liked the original rooms
More than the ones carved to fit the trends
If He wanted me to ignore the architects
And the drafts of copies
And copies
And copies
Of different versions of me
Didn't He want me to accept the mirror for who I am?
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 1:15 PM UTC
I was woven together in my mothers womb,
I was carefully pieced together, like a work of art I went from being a cell to a fully formed being with a beating heart
A slow process of nine months, I was being perfected every detail lightly sketched,
I am a work of art
My mother, such a beautiful face, but in a moments notice that same face became struck with grief
Like a drunk driver speeding on the highway all of these emotions hit her and from those wounds she could not recover,
No, you do not understand she didn't know I was coming, you see that news would come later on
But my mother, my beautiful mother, well, she was ***** and this is where I fit into this story
The visit to the doctor was no easy task,
No, she was torn
Torn between wanting to keep me and also wanting to erase me
MOM!! I GET IT!!
This decision doesn't come lightly, it saddens me to know how much pain this has brought you, how much pain I have brought you
Every single day a new detail is painted, the paintbrush swinging so elegantly, almost like a leaf that flies in the wind
I am a work of art
But you see, my mom, she too is a work of art,
So elegantly put together, the way her hair flows and her eyes tell the story of a warrior,
A person who never stops fighting,
Her eyes so brown like a coffee bean that you smell and instantly smile
That's not even the best part, the best part is the way her lips quiver when she smiles, the sound of her laughter can brighten up any room
She brings people together with just the sound of her voice,
Yeah, you know what? My mom is my hero,
I'm still not here but shes the only world I need to know
She too, is a work of art
Don't you see it?
We are both pieces of art, put together so beautifully that it really is "love at first sight"
I am not here yet, and my mom still hasn't made up her mind,
But I'll tell you this, whether she keeps me or she doesn't that doesn't matter to you
This isn't your story to tell and quite frankly this doesn't concern you,
This song is not your song to sing, so please let my mom take the stage and tell her story through this song
This is the song of a fighter,
The trumpets are roaring,
Her choices are her choices, this isn't your decision to make,
She is both the canvas and the artist,
I am a work of art but my mother, man she's the real masterpiece.
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 5:21 PM UTC
Since I have no other way
And am in utmost need,
Painter girl,
I filch one of the eight lambs
You have made plump with
Green jackfruit leaves and
Thin gruel with paddy bran.
I will take it to the goat market
And sell it in a jiffy.
I assure you
I will not sell it
To any butcher-
The lamb you made chubby
With sweet sweet words
And much much petting
And nice lilting croons,
Mixing and mixing
Greens with browns.
Don’t be sad, painter girl.
I hear you come running
Searching for your lamb and
Cry out “O my dearest one
Who went grazing in the green fields,”
As the sun in your canvas
Sets in the sea and
The saffron blends with the dusk.
And, see your tears mingle
With the black that you wanted
To adorn the brow of
The naughtiest of them.
Painter girl,
It’s all because I have no other go
And it’s of utmost need.
I could have broken into the
Two-storeyedhouse you sketched
And stolen the ornaments in
Secret lockers that even
You are unaware of.
Or, I could have
Palmed the golden girdle
Of the beautiful ***** princess
Whose portrait you made,
The one with a nose stud.
Or, drugged her with my kisses
And plundered the harem.
Or else, I could have
Entered the snake shrine
Guarded by the dark serpents
That you often drew
And fled the country with
The precious jewel.
Or, I could have shot down
The birds that you drew
And sold them grilled.
I could have axed down the
Mahagony trees you nurtured
And sold them as timber.
I could have blinded your Kanhaiah
And made him a beggar
To become rich from the alms he earned.
I could have enslavened his Gopis
And handed them over
To the red light streets.
Painter girl,
It’s not for anything of this sort.
I take just one of your eight lambs.
Sell it for a good price
And fulfill my need.
Now, perchance,
If a new tenant comes to rent
My brain where nothing resides
And if they pay me a fat advance,
Painter girl,
Surely will I buy back your lamb.
And tether it in your painting.
Don’t you dare say then
Don’t you say then
That you have forgotten it.
Don’t you say then
You have exhausted your stock of
Green jackfruit leaves.
(Trans from Malayalam by Ra Sh)
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 10:04 AM UTC
Come on, Lady Luck
Throw the dice, spin
the wheel or draw a straw
tell me which way to go
which of these verses
would make his heart sing
for we poets are sirens
driving men to the rocks
& the clock waits so patiently
in the corner, in on the plan
& the city is a memory
sketched in teenage graffiti
& I'm Iggy's ' Passenger'
on a never-ending train
seeing my youth calling again
passing by me
behind cracked glass
beckoning the imagination
laughing, teasing:
' Are you lucky, Miss'
the answer comes : silence
like before the beginning of the world
Aug 5, 2015
Aug 5, 2015 at 3:58 PM UTC
she waited for him to erase her
as he put his pencil to paper
and created her
he traced the upturn of her smile
precisely picturing the laugh that proceeded
he sketched out the smoothness of her legs
intentionally illustrating the eagerness inside
he outlined the curve of her shoulders
carefully capturing the sadness contained
he shaded in the color of her hair
deliberately detailing her fallen darkness
in his eyes
she was more beautiful
than she could ever see herself
but with every stroke
she flinched
fearing that only inches away
from his creation
was her demise
Nov 3, 2018
Nov 3, 2018 at 9:05 PM UTC
Her eyes, wide open,
as they've been drawn to be.
Focused and staring,
but she can't really see.
Sketched with a steady pencil,
held by an unsteady heart,
emotionless and still,
windows too far apart.
Windows to the soul, they say,
windows clouded and opaque.
Windows blurred with drops of rain,
from raging storms on sunny days.
But what good are windows,
when there's nothing there to see?
Windows are just windows
to someone such as she.
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 12:09 AM UTC
There’s nothing special here
Hearts are trampled by and by
Lost looks go searching for lost loves
There’s nothing special here
Long thoughts and short lives
Descending riffs rush by every day
There’s nothing special here
No tour bus stops for the lonely souls
Smoke drifts wafting lazily
Hazily the air never clears
There’s nothing special here
High times never made it through
The door stays shut as often as not
Slumped shouldered fools look down
Frowns etched sketched amid the lines
There’s nothing special here
Just lost souls and hazy minds
There’s nothing special here
cc0111
Jan 3, 2011
Jan 3, 2011 at 5:58 PM UTC
inception an idea implanted in past land
passed on dark wings to grasp hold fast
in sketched out morality soul aghast
push my copycat character past fracture
spiderweb cracks in arguments made
solely of self righteous closed minded glass
however deep these malicious tendrils
slip and strangle the growing tree of
a raptured unique individuality
with perverse views of gender love equality
and views with that they do not agree
that do not conform with their conhypocrisformity
i want to be free to be free to be me
i want to find my personality
i just want love, of self, of you,
agree?
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 9:41 AM UTC
You noticed, when you last
saw Betty the evening she
was dying, in the curtained
off area of the ward, that she
was wearing around her neck,
the wooden rosary you had
given her some months before.
Her husband had telephoned
you and said she was dying and
she wanted to see you. But when
you arrived she was already on
her way out, her eyes closed,
the death rattle taking hold,
her husband and her children
about her bed. The rosary, a
brown wooden cross with a
metallic Christ, was still there,
the Christ lying where her night
gown covered ******* slowly
rose and fell. When you’d seen
her some months back, in the
high street, she said she would
learn the prayers of the rosary,
and how grateful she was to you
for the gift, and she fingered it
there and then, her thumb and
finger rubbing over the Christ.
You’d first met her a year or so
before as she sketched the large
gardens you visited as a group.
Her hand guiding the pencil as
the image was translated onto
the sketch pad, her eyes scanning
what it was she wanted to capture
in all its beauty. I like capturing
churches, she had said, watercolours
and pencil or charcoal as my aids.
You remembered words that evening
as she lay there dying from cancer,
the curtained area dim and silent
except for the rattling breath, just Betty
and the rosary in the end, and your
deep love and the unwanted death.
Sep 9, 2012
Sep 9, 2012 at 9:46 AM UTC
If I sketched an angel without wings
would you be able to tell
she’s an angel?
The sky behind her would be pale yellow
The world below, gray
Like the color of the outline of her frame
I’d describe her face as angelic
Which is supposed to give it away
But maybe you’d only say she looks nice
Feb 10, 2019
Feb 10, 2019 at 7:48 PM UTC
her subtleties and jewels
are billboarded for the drawing of crowds
but the faces sketched by the grease lights are not
the kind that such an exquisite artwork of womanhood
like her should bring out on such a soft spring night
so they fold her up and pack her away
careful not to crease her fine linen soul
and place her neatly away in her cedar chest
knowing i will sneak her out later for wine and ballroom dancing
bring her back to the circus of the obscene
just as dawn creeps into the cool crisp sky
a single tear in her eye for her lost teenage years
when she only wanted to rebel a bit
but spent the time posed neatly like a porcelain doll
she was a lifesize lovesick reproduction in technicolour of herself
all thouse years ago
better to have gone away
better to have been a roadside companion
of the weary walkers
than grown old as one of the window decorations of the world
shes there now in the sun faded backdrop to the shopping season
but ill rescue her someday
well live in somerset and sell glass trinkets
her introspection is the short film version
but her poems are the epic novels
of such sweet romance
it sways the most hardened to the tender embrace
to the love of soul to soul kisses
she weaves such a tender tale
but her nights are spent alone
watching a winter moon
cross the summer sky
her hand aching for the hand that once held it
aching for the love that abandon her to this fate
i hope someday to fill that void in her world
wedged between the cardboard cowboy's forever smile
and the caped crusader sleeping off his drinking binge
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 1:08 PM UTC
I sketched a faceless man today
I put more details in his hands than I ever could in his eyes
I drew a faceless woman today
forward facing
I put more details on the muscles of her back
than I ever could her nose
I painted a faceless child today
I put more details on his body
than I ever could his lips
I painted faceless beings today
all hollowed out alone
my art teacher looked at me like i was a little disturbed
I could not explain to him that the hollow of her cheekbone
will have more meaning
than the color of her eyes
or the voluptuousness of her lips
and that the strain in her shoulders
will show
and that man will have more meaning in the creases
of his palms
than I could ever put on the lines of his face
And all I could think of was
How that faceless woman had a **** good
***
May 21, 2012
May 21, 2012 at 10:11 PM UTC
I remember
you coming around to my house
on your motorbike,
with a kitten.
You were an image
of yourself:
nineteen, a canvas sketched in,
waiting for bold strokes
from a palette as vibrant as fireworks.
And of course
you were shortlived like a rocket,
lighting up our upturned faces as you expired,
leaving us as empty
as a milkbottle, earthbound.
Sep 1, 2012
Sep 1, 2012 at 5:47 PM UTC
Communion of Soft Fingertips
speak, modern world
we are sketched in languages of digital bits,
parity shading certainty with probabilities of truth
giving us form and existence across distance,
distilled to series of warm, invisible numbers
frequencies divided step-wise, as Fourier found them
in noise amalgamated as information heterodyned,
left to be separated out, reordered
by advanced statistical protocols
that trace our borders with delicate, unseen fingertips
a description of new beings, relationships between them
uncertain at first in the short trails
of data they create
but there eventually - by the law of large numbers
or acts of successive approximation
we'll find them
revealed, like a pointilist painting
or seemingly random collection of string
whose elements are alone meaningless
unless we step back to see an entirety of mass
which we recognize immediately
as true love and intimacy
Dec 1, 2011
Dec 1, 2011 at 8:57 AM UTC
Each time we say good night, I am silent
Not because I do not wish to say "Good night, sweet dreams!"
But, because I examine your beautiful face
So as not to forget, knowing it will soon be dark
For when the lights are out and only darkness can be seen
I will have the silhouette I quickly sketched inside my mind
To keep me company until the morning arrives
Nov 13, 2012
Nov 13, 2012 at 6:38 PM UTC
It sketched and slapped an ombre
of crimson reds
& tangerine oranges
until it carved a comfortable atmosphere
amongst the void blacks
and howling navy blues.
Her sun bleached hair dangled over her forehead.
They were the vines that tangled
into wispy curls of tiger's eye gold that
hung lavishly in front of the youngest
temple.
Her eyes were sour,
a Blink and a whistle.
Someone coughing on the last bus outta town.
Those powerful cheek bones,
that she obtained through her
constant "according to" accordion smile,
fell off into a pair of lips
that were just pronounced enough
to make her look like she would laugh & ****
tempt or incinerate.
Intellect winked from her every word
like a whip of cold water and eggnog.
The Campfire was an artist.
It delicately plucked a scene
ripe with confidence and relaxed alcohol.
A tone that made her amazonian scowl
seem intimate and gentle.
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 11:38 AM UTC
The moon hangs, like the main decoration on a very eerie christmas tree, gloomily in the night sky.
Its gentle glow illuminates the world which is otherwise consumed in darkness.
The giant orb, plump like a ripe fruit-
yet glazed over with a chilling moss, inches higher and higher through the starry Milkyway.
When the clock strikes twelve it reaches summit and stops - as if basking in its own awe.
Gently, ever gently the music of the moon wafts through its carressing waves of moonshine - which hug the world below...and in the light of the full moon the fairies seem to dance and glow.
Their tunes and merriment are in celebration of the magic of dreams and fantasy in the air;
But suddenly it's not there anymore, and terror strikes the fairyfolk as they are abandoned in pitch black -
The moon has disappeared.
A candiflossed cloud eclipses the globe and steals the magic from the world.
But soon the moon is free from its disguise and the merriment continues.
Late into the night, when the goddess has long since begun her decent, like a silver'd over balloon, deflating - ever so slowly.
The fairies go back to their flowers and trees, go back to sleep and the world begins to lose its magic again...the soft symphony starts to die, in a slow pianissimo.
And just as she disapears, and sinks into the horizon, just as the dawn approaches, the world is engulfed in a deafening silence - in anticipation.
And as if the interval had gone on for hours, the sky bursts out into a carcophany of trumpets, and orchestra;
a crescendo jubilation as Apollo then edges into existence.
He brings a new kind of magic;
The magic of life.
All this I see, all this I hear when I play my sonata.
I feel the softness of the moon.
I feel the magic as I dance across the keys.
I see the world in a different light, through the music notes sketched into my mind.
And then as the night dies, I experience the rebirth of a new day, through the rise and fall of my melody -
All in the span of just a few minutes and then its gone, all gone -
And I am left starring, alone at the blank pages.
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 9:25 AM UTC
I was once told to edit the world. I grabbed my colored pencils, my childish ideals thinking I could simply, go over the imperfections left by my predecessors. Soon I would come to realize, life is no etchy-sketch. I could shake the world, twist, mold into anything I wanted. It’s still ****** up. I’m still trying to color the problems. I shade the unwanted, masking it over so I can pretend it’s gone. My day dreams continue further as I sketched over past memories, just want to edit the world. But, colored pencils become daggers when in the right hands. I’ve leaped into this idea with no plan, Standard american wisdom. Act first, question later. my first action should have been to ask, is the world a canvas? Maybe it’s a kindergarden sandbox, 5 year old fists and 6 year olds toes smash and pound through. Maybe it’s a thunderstorm because, I was told life isn’t all sunshine and rainbows. All I’ve seen is dark clouds and lighting. Maybe the world is me. Poetic angst without fail, too much energy to use, to many words spoken at a rapid pace. Maybe the world is you, you, or you. It’s not just its own story, it’s a combination of auto-biographies still being written. Maybe... Just maybe, we are all editors. The world is constantly being edited, no single person should aim to do it themselves. Our world is force, a group, a team, a family taking the pens from our mothers and fathers, writing our chapters into the guide on how to edit. Sooner rather than later, we’ll pass our pens down to those who will write the chapters we never get to see. Hopefully, 5 year old fists and 6 year old toes become 20 year old champions and 30 year old heroes. We can share our stories, filled with the people we’ll never forget, and the nights, we can’t seem to remember. In the end, editing the world will never finished, it can be forgotten. We hope shedding sun rays on a rainy day, might convince our successors to never forget. Sadly, We can only hope they wish to edit.
Oct 29, 2012
Oct 29, 2012 at 7:42 PM UTC