When do you know that you have fallen out of love?
When you wake up every morning To realise that you will never see that familiar face beside you, When you stop counting the days You heard him last, When the calendar is unknown About your span of separation, Or when that face fades a little more In the heap of memories and tears,
When do you know that you are still in love?
Maybe when you realise that you Never unloved but learnt to stay alone, Or when you acknowledge that you Only chose yourself over a storm, That could ruin.
1. Your friend has a habit of abusing in everyday conversation and you learn that too. Did you count the hours your mother had put to teach you manners as a child? How cool is it to walk over her efforts.
// At your age I found it cooler to learn how to teach ABCD to a kid with learning disorder, and when I saw him writing I was proud of myself //
2. You stand outside the atm and your impatient legs are in hurry, you start mocking the old aunty inside who is taking a little longer. Ever wondered how difficult is it for them to use the modern technology? How cool is it to be insensitive.
// I stood there longer than you did and asked you to go first. You looked at me in amazement without saying a word. Waiting is a chapter you never visited and I excelled//
3. You talk about never compromising and throwing all tantrums to get the latest phone from your dad. When was the last time you taught your parents to use certain features in phone without getting irritated. How cool is it to be ungrateful.
// I was elder to you , got a phone that my dad bought and i was happy to hold it. Gadgets don't make you modern, pious thoughts does //
4.You start drinking and smoking because your friends do. At twenty two it is occasional at thirty two it becomes addiction. When was the last time you looked at the face of a child who lost his father because of this addiction. How cool is it to add one more of such child to the world.
// I was twelve when I visited the cancer ward of a hospital and the sight was horrifying. The night of regrets end in death. Choose a morning of improvement //
You admire a civilisation I carry Without realising that it's You Who brought bricks from miles away And transformed an abandoned city
Hello people !!! I am going to complete two years on mirakee on August 20, 2019. If I try recalling what I came here for , I don't get an appropriate answer but I received a lot more than I expected or deserved. If I am a writer of any calibre I owe that to @mirakee.
To anyone who has ever read and appreciated me , I am thankful beyond words and maybe I would never be able to express how your words have worked wonders for me :")
Below is an excerpt from a long letter one of my friend wrote me after reading my poem that she felt in a way changed her. If this is not an achievement I don't know what is.
I had planned few things to mark the day but my fluctuating health and some other things didn't allow. But I hope I can still execute a part of it. Irrespective of that I will write and would love to hear from you, you who always make my way to words.
Your mother bled pain for four days every month and risked her life to give you birth, and when she held you for the first time she called you her life irrespective of the skin tone you carried but all you learnt to see after opening eyes is a fair face. // You look into the mirror and she calls you a prince standing beside but all I see is disgust //
To the W O M E N : ( looking for fair faced men )
Your father's skin tone is not what he was born with. He gave up on his looks to gather comforts for you and he smiled the widest, called you beauty the first time you curled your fingers around his , irrespective of the colour of your skin. He taught you love and all your eyes learnt was facial beauty. // Keep looking for a fair skinned man and I will tell you that loyalty and love has no colour. Disgrace has, the one you are painting yourself in //
To A N Y O N E : ( mocking others on skin tone )
When was the last time you uplifted a person with your words. I see it never happened because all your words learnt is pushing someone down. Did you know words coming out of your mouth smells like filth and so do you. // You paint your room in white and paste a picture a picture of snow white but someday if you fall in a pit, you will hold any hand that comes for help. Helping hands have no colour, right? //
To the P E O P L E : ( in fairness products business )
Your advertisement is running on all channels. Keep taking sips of pride and never count the number of people for whom you constructed a hell by erasing reason and scribbling garbage on society 's brains. // Victory has a colour too that you will never see because you failed each time someone felt inferior because of you //
To the W O M E N and M E N : ( who ever felt less because of skin tone )
You are an art. Only an artist shall know your value. But don't wait, become one yourself. You have infinite colours in you so paint yourself in the shade you like. // The next time they tell you to not pick a very bright colour, wear yellow. Become the sun they can never meet their eyes with //
(Meaning: This moment is saying, "Let's come out of what we are and let's just live!") --------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I long to love, again. When on a cold winter night, a stranger's melancholic voice in my headphones, singing lyrics of betrayal, feels warmer than the blanket covering my insecurities and cosier than the fire warming up my cold blood.
I long to live, again. When the soft breeze blowing in through the half-open window of my speeding car, gently kisses my pale face in a benign attempt to soothe my eyes, tired of wasting tears on people, I was pushed away from.
I long to love, again. When I look up to a wrinkled face of a woman clad in a white saree, on the balcony of an old age home, with wet eyes tracing her young son's path down the rusty stairs, and see her grieve the loss of both the men in her life that she had once loved.
I long to live, again. When I see how the heartbeat of a recovering, seven year old organ transplant patient restores hope in the nervous eyes of his family and contentment in the smiles of the donor's, and the cream-coloured walls of the hospital room appear a shade less duller.
I long to love, again. When reading the long letters that I had once addressed to myself, reminds me of how much I missed being what I was and how much I wished to be what I wasn't, and calm me more than the TED talks on self-love.
I long to live, again. When I realize that just how we all stick through the deadliest of storms winding up in our fragile hearts every nightfall, even graveyards bask in the brightest of sunrays every morning.