She once told me that yellow and orange in the sun frightens her, that people dressed as sunlight with too much hope burns her. But all I could see was her smile, genuine smile whenever she gazes at those yellow sunflowers.
She told me she hated green grass on the battlegrounds, that red dripping from her arms stains the green reminding her of a bruised blue dream. But all I could see was a green piece of land with heartbreaks blooming like flowers.
She told me if someday she ever painted hope, It would be violet, purple and lilac, the same as of the setting sun in the darkest stage of twilight. But all I could see was her, with fading purple bruises and sheer resemblance of 'HOPE' walking down the path of kindness I wish to walk every day.
Was it born while Van Gogh was painting 'Starry Night Over The Rhone'? Was it born when Charles Bukowski decided to be brutally honest? Or it was when Sylvia plath submitted her thesis 'The Magic Mirror' after getting electroconvulsive therapy for fighting depression after months.
Was it in the pain and havoc that the moon created dejected by the idea of never meeting his unrequited lover Sea. Was it born right after that shooting star fall from the sky, maybe in love or tragedy. Or was poetry born when you decided to keep grief and sadness within yourself?
I read somewhere if you are suffering from writer's block write daily. I started writing this poetry /prose 3 days ago and I am still writing it, reminding me how I use to read a 300 page book in 3 days and now It takes me 3 months to do the same.
I started writing this poem about rediscovering stars and those rare northern lights, about how maybe these words could levitate the glooming sadness around the infrastructure of my imagination, forgetting that I spend more hours in speaking business rather than making love to words.
I couldn't complete it that day and I still, haven't done it yet and like every adult I just filed it up as bullet on the next week to-do list.
There is a common pattern of struggle between those unfamiliar faces in empty rooms, all at the same time trying to unravel the knots of confusion beneath and finding a home in all the chaos rattling around in categories that couldn't do justice to them.
I easily lose directions and ways. On my way back home from school, I use to memorize landmarks in between like the tall green gigantic tree, a pothole on the left side of the road and finally the smile, book store owner gave me, I memorized everything all in fear of being lost.
I got lost today. I am not able to find those landmarks. That tall green gigantic tree is now staring at me with hollow eyes, too tired of all the weight on his dead branch. He decided to break down. My living room has a centre table made of it. I couldn't see it though. I never reached home. I lost my landmark.
I walked ahead in search of that tiny pothole, that depression in the road surface. To my surprise, I found plenty. The road was now filled with potholes. Apparently, the humans forgot to fill one, blamed him for hurting them and he got angry. Now they are on strike. Each and every on the road demanded an apology from humans for never being accountable for their actions. I don't know which way to go now. Every time I try to take a step I fall into the pits which somehow I dug.
I tried moving further with bleeding hands and heart thinking that smile of the bookkeeper will brighten my day and lead me home. I walk to the book store and patiently wait for him to come out. I waited. I waited for a long time. No one came out. I saw a paper hanging on the side ' Place On Rent. Call +91-**-***-***** for further details.' I tried to reason myself as to why he would sell this place. I remembered the smile, making me realize that wasn't out of courtesy but loneliness. Maybe If I wasn't too busy remembering the way to the destination, I would have saved this landmark. A smile doesn't hurt anyone they say, to me it did. It made me guilty. Guilty of not saving someone who always provided a sense of security in me while I was walking back home.
Draped in skins black and white and souls a charcoal grey , we walk on a land where even the breezes are hued a sunkissed red leaving lipstick stains as they peck our pale cheeks , a land where sand blushes on a rosy dusk and glows golden on a happy dawn , a land where days turn a thousand shades to form rainbows over the year and while walking on this land with skins dipped in blacks and whites and souls a charcoal grey , I realise that perhaps we are nothing but a monochrome in this colourful world!!
Over colorless scars on my heart A million stories find a subtle home Voiceless are its words, priceless its essence Selfless are my stories, with pain so immense
I tried writing a lot 'bout my pain Barely words drizzle, rarely they rain Each incomplete poem, all abandoned drafts Teach me how to love, scribbling beyond craft
All devices poured together, Never made a single verse Along premises of signing birds I wrote poems most diverse
Nature is my only teacher An only guide of fair nature Colourful maybe it's caricature Magic still its silent feature
Yellow and green, those flowers unseen Dangling lilacs, dancing roses Fallin' mangoes, a taste proposes Scented smell of soaked soil Takes away heart's turmoil
Just an evening with my friends In our trembling treehouse Where everyone happily pretends To be a cat, or become a mouse
We chase each other, in and out Let's laugh, live and lovingly shout Nobody knew our whereabouts Lovely was life then, no doubt
I miss my childhood love, my seesaw In the park, about to dark, evening on rise White uniform now brown, I lay down Stars are my silent dreams, my mind in skies
Closer to its garden, was a lost library Tagore on its walls, Gandhi in its gallery Words have their magic of own, I read upon a stationary stone I found words scribbled there, it's a prayer "Words never die, so ever alive is a writer No matter how dark is time Words turn my soul brighter"
I couldn't select a book right then Never saw so many books once I left this choice to my hands, eyes closed I picked a book, it felt smaller in my hands Soon I opened eyes, at Gulzar my eyes land Listening to songs was love, Now living in them was life.
It was a normal day, but now's a special date I heard a poem travelling through air Layer by layer, in ears poem disappears That voice still resonates in me, He was Kumar Vishwas, on the TV set His words, his voice, his poem, just perfect
With love for his poems, I torn a page out Pen glided over my emotional glaciers Verses melted out of them, my first poem Flowed on paper like a drop of water I discovered an unknown world within me Upon the paper I become truly free Soaring in my endless universe World is just a rhyme, my life just a verse
Stories were not my cup of tea, 'till I see How stories stay with me, Like a fish in deep sea Fiction truly comes back, to reality everyday "For you a thousand times over" when a writer does say Khalid Hosseni, a name needless to speak 'bout A master who taught me, how to life are words brought
Humpty Dumpty and Twinkling stars You remind me of friends, I had lost They were so precious, I want them back But friends, Friendship's not free of cost
It's too late already My masters will now visit me Let me close the doors, open windows A new book in my hands, I'm ready to dive in Reading is my first love, nothing can replace a novel Well, It's better unsaid, there are still a million tales to tell
Knocking doors to my heart, Words travelled a long path Let them become a part of me Let me dive in deepest sea Let me live with purest glee
Where my imagination finds help Is the best place to loose myself.
since i vacated my pillows and the right side of the bed, in exchange of filling yours, your smell lulls me to nightmares, the nightly replays of how your soft soft lips can utter as destructive as goodbye, there are songs i never understand the lyrics but the tune is enough, like how you whispered, too low, for human ears to hear (or maybe i refused to hear so) but i knew that sound, the unloading of memories in front of me like they weigh too much on your shoulders, the relief you finally said it, that's the tune of goodbye,
there are thousand ways you can leave, yet you chose to do it in a way i could notice the sound of your footsteps coming closer but the echoes bounce in invisible wall between us, you chose to do it in a way, that i could memorize the agonizing seconds of knowing it's the end, we're in a dead end, the strike of guilt, of confusion, of armalite of questions of doubts, when did he carry my love and not the other way around?
i died a thousand deaths and live for thousand and one times to mourn the thousand lives of mine that have died,
and i still do, i wake up everyday, with the sun still the same, yet i'm still not used to half empty bed, i am half amazed, that i live days untouched by you, yet i am half scared for i know this is the kind of withdrawal from an addiction that still hides starvation behind, and im like counting day by day like a countdown to an unknown event.