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  • _guts_ 1w

    Alert : I am out of metaphors.
    I am at a loss for metaphors, I try to delve for some in this big packet of my incomplete and raw thoughts weaving a web in my foolishly- immature brain and my little-too-brittle heart. Am I living the most dreadful nightmares of being a poet? Or is it my incompetency as a poet? Or worse, Was I never one?

    Need : To look for metaphors for the legislation over the body, the decisions, the choices, the thoughts, the voice, the soul of a women.
    When I was in love with him,

    On some mornings, when I used to wake up with my neck bruised and my stomach smooched, I used to question my consent to allow him to cover his body around my soul.
    On some afternoons, I used to question my decision to lay a little longer in bed with him, while he reached the depths of my soul trying to liberate me, but the emptiness of not knowing the reason behind my decision, made me fall into deeps depths of what seemed-hell-like.
    On some evenings, I used to question those forbidden thoughts of making love with him in the night.
    On some nights, I used to question all those curves of my body which glided against his, while we made love, am I doing right to my father. Or is this the right way to be his, questioning my existence by his side?

    When I left him for my father,

    On some mornings, when I used to miss the taste of his lip and the warmth of his soul around me, I used to question my decision to let go of him.
    On some afternoons, when I used to meet various men, my father wanted me to marry to, I used to question my silence which could never speak up for a love I wanted.
    On that one evening, when I was about to get married to my father's friend's son, when the mehndi of his name didn't shine in my hands, I questioned my soul for not truly belonging to my father's decision and his respect inthe society.
    On the night of my marriage, I questioned my love for him and my respect for my father's name, was I not able to love him the way I should? Or did I blur the virginity I owed only to one person, my father?

    But on some very special moments,
    On the eighth day of the week, I question myself some unanswerable questions, which only I have an answer to.
    Can I make love with him and not be the reason of bringing disrespect to my father?
    Can I owe my self and my virginity to my ownself?
    Can I be both his and my father's and yet belong to none?
    Can I be no ones' and yet belong to both?
    Can I be me, no matter the part of the day, the longitude and latitude I am at, No matter the people I am surrounded with?

    Is it my incompetency as a poet? Or so is the nature of a women?

    P.s. maybe I was never a poet.
    P.c. to its rightful owner (thanks for the image @_aradhya )

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    We are never very far from those we hate. For this very reason, we shall never be truly close to those we love.
    - Albert Sánchez Piñol, Cold Skin

  • _guts_ 2w

    //Numb. And. Dumb.//
    You are the answer I give to all the questions in all of my incomplete haiku. But when you ask me questions, I am numb and dumb both at the same time.
    //Bit. By. Bit. //
    You are the only truth floating over the lies of my poetries. And I behold your beauty. But time has seen, that truth poisons it's beholder, so do you. You poison me bit by bit.
    //Flux. To. Flow. //
    You are the refrain in my ballad, the verse I repeat after every new stanza. You balance my rhythm, even out my sound, but when the new stanzas start to make no sense, you stagnate me. You stagnate me from Flux to flow.
    //Naked. And. Real.//
    Each stare that I steal of yours alleviates me and I bloom in an another universe, but when you drop me back to reality, I reach the depths of my own soul, naked and real.

    P.c.- Pinterest

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    Let's not complicate love by expecting it to be a masterpiece when it is weaved in a haiku, manifested in poetries, dreamt of in ballads and stolen in stares. It is an imperfect mess, cliched and over-rated.

  • _guts_ 2w

    I got this task to write a article on GENDER DISCRIMINATION AND ITS EFFECT ON WOMEN by my school teacher for practice of article writing. So thought of posted this here, my approach would have been different if this hadn't been for school. Of someday I write it for myself, i may post it here.
    Also @eurus , I used one of your lines in this post, I am really sorry if this hurts you. If it does, please comment it, I will remove the line- ignorance is a bliss but at times it is a curse which annihilates each and every one of our dreams.

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    by- Rutvi Mahendra

    In the words of the first black president of South Africa, “ A man who takes away another man’s freedom is a prisoner of hatred, he is locked behind the bars of prejudice and narrow-mindedness. The oppressor and the oppressed alike are robbed off their humanity.” These bars have been creasing and suffocating the only novelty suffering to survive in this inhumane world. Ignorance may be a bliss at several times, but at others it is a curse which annihilates each and every one of our dreams. Surprisingly, the irony since ages has been in this case, not of acceptance and awareness but that of our own consent, all of us are aware of this deep rooted discrimination and stigma, and every morning we turn our faceswhen we need to accept and strive for a better reality.

    Women may be paid equally, may have better representations and opportunities today but only silence reverberates when they look in the mirror to accept their femininity. This fractured mindset was given to birth by Gandhi when he limited the role of women to being, “Good mothers and good wives.” and also when one of the most remembered greek philosophers, Socrates, called women weak. And this threshold was overwhelmingly welcomed by the religious gurus and orthoxidal societies, which today lack the faith they were established with. Political parties use this as yet another tactic. And the real sufferers are never heard of, their problems unsolved and their belief in humanity shaken. Elaborating on the faith of religion I earlier mentioned, the paradox today is that it was a woman, Angel Gabreil who was given the sacred task of bringing prophetic words and the holy bible from the lord to lord’s faithful, and yet the women in europe had to fight another age of revolutions to get mere political rights. The paradox today is that girls need to fight for equal education but even in the vedic period, it was gargi and maitreyi, two females, the most supreme scholars and philosophers of the time. The so called interpreters of religion misguided the basis of the origins of religion for their own personal interest and hunger for power and dominance.

    Discrimination based on gender has effected both the sides of the coin, male and female, at several instances effecting the latter more than the former, but this does not mean that the rights and identity of any could be violated. The traditional roles of ‘homemaker’ and ‘breadwinner’ influence a variety of standards to fit in, but in reality just excludes others who wish to fly in their skies, aloof narrow mindedness and the limitations set up by society. Issues surrounding gender inequality and discrimination are many, ranging from gender pay gap to sexual harrassment, attached to it is the fear of asking what you are worth being paid which makes them succumed to settling for less, moreover the fear to be sexually harassed and their bodies exemplying the respect of their families lead to less involvement of them in the unorgranised sector. The road to fulfil our dreams for us is paved with cobblestones, internal discrimation will just divide our souls and bind our capabilities and we will never be able to reach our destination.

  • _guts_ 3w

    Dilemma and disappointment are a constant visitor at your gate, if you are trying to interpret life and human behaviour, believing not everything in this immoral world is vanity, and even though paved with cobblestones there lies a bleak scope to Novelty(/originality), content(/satisfaction) and purpose ( The purpose).
    And one of the many hardest things for me has been to come with terms that mediocrity and satisfaction with your current status is often misunderstood with stagnation. But maybe I will talk about it some other day.
    Something, which may seem rather smaller and naive at the first look, has often made me stand crossroads with my own self, which is understanding that what creases the heart often overweighs what pleases the heart.

    //Ever thought why we have so many memories in the name of those who destroyed the essence and faith of millions, examples are many, the KHILJI road , BAHADUR SHAH ZAFAR marg, why not even a single named BHAGAT SINGH?//

    The bad chronicles and gets imprinted in the history, and the good is just remembered of on some fine days, as a result there are a million mundane herioes and heroines (no not of bollywoos or Hollywood) awaiting to be read. And we, the youth are either so busy in our own lives that we are oblivious to these stories or so selfish that we blame this in the name of those who were in power. Yes, ofcourse the hands in power write the history, but is the stand of the good, the right so bleak that is so easily gets overshadowed by these greedy hands.

    //Has breaking news become synonymous to Rape, Crime, Nepotism and yes Rasode mei kaun tha? //

    Today's media houses have redefined news, no such thing as balanced new exists, no good things are talked of and rediscovery of a golden past is a mere dream. A girl saves herself from being raped will never make to the headlines, because this will give million other girls the strength( which she already possesses) to stand against what is wrong and learn to say NO.

    //Politics is no noble profession. Today, terror is misunderstood at respect. //

    The more bad deeds you get involved in, the more corruption you are surrounded with, the more fame, money and terror will await your entry. Corruption is society can never be entirely eradicated, but why is our system made in a way that it fails to appreciate the good doer, someone who thinks above his/her own individual interest and the ones who are involved more in under the table work, get decent salaries and even pensions.

    Have you ever thought, why and how a single fight with a near one can conceal and destroy all the good they ever did for you? You haven't. Maybe, you should.

    //The bad stays, the good fades away. //

    Seeing all of this, only words which seem to give me peace and hope both, are -
    The bad may be the fulcrums the world works on ( ये दुनिया चलती भले ही बुराई से हो)
    But it is the truth, on which it is stabilized.
    ( परंतु तिकी हुई सच्चाई पर है)
    And if all is vanity under the sun, I did wait for the moon to rise.


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    And if all is vanity under the sun, I did wait for the moon to rise.

  • _guts_ 4w

    My eyes are singing ballads for you.
    Alas, you are blind!

  • _guts_ 4w

    // The sky is pink and the floor's a tinted red with my blood . The hue of my murky scarred skin fades away with the intense smudges of blotted ink.

    I am writting ballads on love, and the alphabets are twisting weirdly, fighting with each other, with a desire to live alone, knowing that it is their togetherness which gives them meaning. I try to explain them, but they won't listen, after all the ballads I write carry my imperfections, and therefore they possess in themselves my insecurities, the fights I fight with myself and my emotions, to rhyme alone even though I know that it takes unison to form even a clich`ed rhythm.

    You are an intoxicating never-ending cigarette to me, and poetries, my ashtray unimaginably huge afterall it possesses the depth of my pains. //

    A 2 min scribble. I don't know why I am posting this. But on evenings like this I don't write poetries, poetries write me.

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    A Musing : Evenings drenched in Pain and Sufferings

  • _guts_ 5w

    The worst nightmare, or sometimes the best blessing, for a writer is when his writings start revolving around him. When he becomes the protagonist, when he suffers all those pain he spent evening singing lullabies and writing melodies on. And this reality comes running for each one of the writers, mine did too.
    ' Single. Pregnant. Depressed. ', the three words I used to define myself 5 years ago. I was living my own scribbles, wondering if I was really a great writer or just one of the many writers whose loneliness make them so bleak that they are lost in the prism of reality and imagination.
    The loss of love was making me motionless day by day, and I was about to give up on numbness itself when I felt a different pain, the pain of life inside my womb.
    That was the most difficult time, the time when the decision of destroying one more life or letting it bloom( if not like a rose then like a daffodil in my garden ) , this decision was in my hand.
    And I randomly or maybe because of what fate had prepared for me, I came across one of the letters I wrote, a years back, though it feels like a century..

    Dear Death,
    This is a letter to you. Maybe I am too small to even think of this, but I have a grudge for you, and because I have nothing left, I don't want to take this grudge to wherever afterlife takes me.
    Well dear death, this isn't just a letter about complains, this is the only one I could ever write, because when I think of familiarity, think of you. This could have been a symphony to life, but life left me hopeless, so with whatever hope left, this is a regard to you.

    The only grudge I have against you is that I wish you waited for me to be born, to take my first breath, before you extended your beckoning hands to my body. ( Or maybe my soul, I was just a foetus afterall, but I heard the nurse say that a soul never dies, I told you I am too small to even think of think and here I am writing this letter to you. )
    If you even run across my mother, tell her that I love her for bringing me in this world, oops, to you. It is because of her that I possess this familiarity in you. If you have trouble recognising her, all I know of her is the warmth of her womb and her insecurities.

    Dear death, I wish to looked at life as closely as you do, every single day entering the world and liberating some new lives and at times, some foetuses like me.
    I wonder what it is like to be born.

    One of your preachers
    (Though my mother never taught me what that is.)

    After reading this, though teary eyed, I made my decision, to held onto this life growing inside me.
    And I understood that I wasn't just going through a single fight but actually two. One was mine, which was preparing me to become a mother and the other one, was that of the writer within me, who was growing to understand that 'Pain is inevitable, but suffering is an option ' which taught me that there will be days when my mind will be filled with dark thoughts, but in the end it is the goodness which will get me across.
    "The bad may be the fulcrum the world works on
    But it is the good it stabilizes on."

    Five years spent, and I found love and life both in my daughter, Eva (which means to live.)

    - Rutvi
    The reason I wrote this? A tiktok video. No not at all, just kidding.
    Written in one go, so please don't mind if any spelling errors.
    I always forget giving picture credits ..
    P.c. - Pinterest

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    //Birth is not about making babies, it is about making mothers - strong, competent, capable mothers who trust themselves and know their inner strength. //

  • _guts_ 8w

    So this is just a piece I wrote for myself to read when I look in the mirror and notice my stretch marks and my imperfections. And a big thanks to my father to teach me this.

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    From the backyard(and grave)

    What happens when you remove a cloth from a hanger? It falls off completely formless and mishaped to the ground, similar to our body when our soul departs on another journey.
    Our Soul changes bodies very similar to how we change clothes on a hanger.
    At times the fabric is rugged, or there are spots on the cloth, just the way life craves lines on our forehead, bruises on our heart and scars on our head.
    If the fabric is lucky enough, we pick it up, clean it and give comfort. If our bodies are lucky enough, one of our well-wishers, or maybe family members give a proper grave to our bodies.
    We spend a lot of time finding the perfect cloth, or maybe perfecting the one we already have, we make sure that the colour does not fade, the fabric is of the best quality and when ever we put it on, it carries our vibe. But one fine day, which may arrive sooner or later but it will, the fabric will lose its charm or maybe we would have grown up and it doesn't fit us anymore or the vibe just gets lost or it is no more comforting to put it on and breathe, the cloth loses its value.
    We spend years on our bodies, trying to attain the zero figure, the best skin and what not. But one fine day, our soul decides to change its cloth, which in this case is our body
    Then, Our body loses its value and gains the grave or Maybe burns down to ashes.
    So why not invest in our soul and not our body. Why don't we try to improve what we are like and not who we look like. Why don't we set examples not of perfect bodies but of happy souls. I leave you with this question, and let your soul choose.
    From- The backyard where you throw your clothes
    And your grave.

  • _guts_ 8w

    //I found my Polaroid.//
    I found my Polaroid today, beneath some of my old t-shirts which have grown short now. I feel the touch and with this familiarity comes a realization so strong that it weakens my legs. I remember when my father gave me this Polaroid as a gift, with a hope to make me acknowledge what lies all around us unnoticed, embrace the nature and let beauty bloom from within .
    //how foolish are we?//
    I pity myself for I thought I can capture the whole universe inside this small Polaroid camera of mine, and carry with myself a part of everyplace my footprints get imprinted and every person I ever encounter.
    We tie our life with persons and things, thinking that the greater the web becomes, the more stronger a spider we are. But among all this, the question isn't about how strong the bonds we create or the threads we tie are, the question isn't about the probability of the threads to survive and remain strong when knots form, the question isn't about what will we cling to? when the biggest spider arrives, and all our threads start breaking, the real question is that when we or the spider dies, will the threads break on their own or will they just vanish as if they were never really there and we spent all our lives in vain, creating something which was never really there.

    All of us tie these threads, willingly or unwillingly. And all of us die.
    But something, or maybe the only one, which stays with us forever are the memories we create and the deeds we sow.
    To me, my Polaroid was one such thread, and I am holding it close to my heart on this walk back to my cementery, my only real abode which i don't even need to pay for every month.

    This cementery is my final abode.
    The only asset I own

    I breathe death alone.
    - guts (rutvi)

    Since birth, the only battle we ever fight and always lose is the one with death. Death indeed is inevitable.
    And all the settlements we make, are to comfort us when we can't breathe. Even Parents want children(a boy preferably) to carry them on their shoulders on their last voyage, and this is not bound by borders whether it is Ganga ghat in varanasi or a cementery in London , the last voyage shall be this.
    So everything is just for show and eternally temporary, and nothing is yours.Including the body you invest in, the money you think is yours, the surname you own, the threads you tie.

    Note: The lines is caption are a part of a song by lost frequencies named crazy.
    Thank you for reading !
    Cheerios ��
    Also, I know this is shit but all that I could come up with the word Polaroid. @_aradhya
    PC- pinterest:)

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    //Oh Lord
    Hear me turn these words into a song
    For them to sing along to when I'm gone
    For them to sing along to when I'm gone//

  • _guts_ 10w

    This is for you Aradhya. You are special, you know it right? You have many friends, I just have handful of them, but you matter. And I know I matter for you.
    And as this was the point when we finally had it all cleared up, I want to write the advice I gave to you, just so that whenever we read this post again, we bloom, we cherish together, love.
    " Aradhya, please don't mind me, but if someone matters to you na , u never do such things. I know there are people who matter a damn lot to you.And I am not even trynna say that u don't love themm.... Its just that, before your arrogance comes in... Think for a moment ,does this person matter to me, if the answer is yes, u will yourself refrain from saying anything like that... If it is a no, have sonder."

    I love you, Aradhya. Thankyou for listening tonight.

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    To the friend who was never ready to listen

    Have you ever thrown balls on an opaque wall, no not the one with an open window, they come back right? At times hit you at the chest.
    Have you ever jumped on a trampoline, how hard you may try to reach the bottom, to settle things up, but even a force like gravity can't hold you down and you reflect back, all open shattered up to the sky.
    //This is how conversations with you were. Every time I tried to reveal what is hidden, to say what is suppressed, to let go of few emotions, you were trying to prove me wrong, for all I wanted was to give in whatever I had.//
    Have you ever deliberately let the ball hit your chest, catch it and hit it again, just to be hurt for one more time.
    Have you ever jumped real hard on the trampoline, even though deep down you know that you will be bounced back with the same force.
    // They say love is a dangerous thing. I find it lovely. Because each time you reversed my concerns with expectations, I made a promise to my inner self, not to prove you wrong darling, but just to prove myself right when I say that you are my gal(/girl), and deep down you agree with whatever I say, just not in the face, because you hate to lose.//
    And then I am sure, if you answered a yes to the above questions, then one fine day, you must have stopped throwing balls when your chest was bruised completely.
    And then have you ever, let your legs give up and fall with a huge thump on the trampoline, Because your heart is too heaved.
    //Things started getting complex, from the unsaid being understood there can a time when even the said what just heard, not listened to. And I was about to give up. You were about to give up. We were to let go.//
    But then one fine day, the wall either develops a hole missing the reality you offered to it, or maybe there appears a window, which was always there just locked before.
    And then the trampoline seems as if it was never really there, because there lies something so soft below it, and I choose not to express it, because it can only be felt.
    //Well, at the most unexpected times, love happens, in our case re-happens, because after all it is love, it beholds a magic beyond all rationality. And yes I was right, deep down you always understood, you were just a little timid it accept it. But now you define courage to me because you had the will to understand and you did. //