Here I am lying beside you on the bed staring constantly as you fill a blank page with scribble after scribble. Its as if you uncoil all the weight in your mind and wrap it around this white sheet so as to exorcize yourself of the invisible chains clamping you down. But then I wonder how would you be able to do the same with me? Maybe I should find a way to disintegrate myself into words and scatter around that spotlessly white paper. Perhaps then it would lighten the load of my presence from your existence. Just like the freshly lit cigarette between your lips does.
I ask you what you are writing about but then the fluency of your silence makes me shut my mouth. Nothing unexpected. I just stare at the frown in your brow and imagine how many words would fit into it. Would they be enough to be counted as an explanation?
The way you sit just an arms length away from me bounded by an unknown territory of mysterious words, makes me scared of the words that pop up in my own mind. Words like 'refugee' or worse 'infiltrator'. Now, all I wish is for my own words to have remained a mystery to me. Perhaps then I may find myself in a state somewhat similar to yours without the formal thread of words. But guesswork isn't any good at this point. Its either you know what's going on or you don't. Or atleast this was the ideal state that we strived for all this time. Instead of blindly believing that I'm your's and you are mine.
The wooden varnish on the table Gives in reluctantly to the attacks of my nails As I scribble the hieroglyphics of a failed time table To leave behind a stale trail Of all the weight in my mind Beyond its expiry date And past its shelf life, Falling in love with putrefaction, Turning into a clone Of its own Stockholm Syndrome, Elated at the possibility of donating its carcass To a fermentation flask And churning in optimal conditions Until the grind turns it into wine And spills out finally as intoxicated lines.
The golden flame in one corner of the table Breathes in its soot While playing a crackling flute now and then When the faint wisps of evening breeze Eve tease it into an occassional jig, Disrupting its calm And scattering its warmth Till it no longer resembles a flame But a helpless dame Running helter skelter for shelter.
you feel out of place out of tune as if you've fallen through the wrong cracks to end up in a home that belongs to someone else.
like a word that doesn't quite rhyme; but sits in the middle of a story that everyone skips to read the ending. misplaced by a writer who was in a rush.
a little lonely in the crowded room a little claustrophobic in an empty one you feel out of place.
the fan creaks from the ceiling as the sun burns through the summer days.
you miss the rain, not the kinda one every poet romanticize about these days. but the wild ones that they don't write about, the ones that drown the empty streets with the heavy falls, the ones that drown you to the depths. you miss the chaos.
days are poignant, you stare at the crossroads that lead to more crossroads in a sadistic loop. you feel out of place like a mouse that runs through a maze.
all the songs that made sense once don't feel the same anymore. so, you press next till you fall asleep. like love, you feel out of tune.
maybe it's certain lines that everyone ever cared about. never about the one that died in between. the one that never belonged.
we all knew it was coming we just didn't know when and then when it does it feels like a punch on our face in slow motion with dolby surround sound that echoes within the four walls of our consciousness like the eerieness of evening bells in unison, like the ferocious black waves of an ocean, like the vibrations of an early morning call, still doesn't feel real. This can't be it. This is not how it was supposed to end. I wasn't ready for it. I need a little more. like a season's cliff hanger I waited for a plot twist like a morbid nightmare I paused for it to end, but nobody woke me up for my eyes are wide open staring at nothingness but my heart is asleep with grief.
the strength with which you held on was fierce, and the grace with which you've left is violent.. an aftermath of quiet a disturbing blanket of peace it feels silly to be numb by a stranger's departure maybe that is the impact of a genuine artist who is taken for granted when he's alive and cried upon only after he's buried.
Flashes of white light blinded the eyes, images binding blinking stardom, a doomed star floating alone in a void painted black, dazed, making his way to the back seat of a limousine, unclean mind, unable to hear the subtle crackle of electricity petrifying the air, mine, a word hidden under fame strewn with mines, for the ears were filled by the blasting voices of fandom, wishing for a single fan, to hang from, a lady rode in front of him, while a driver made the turns, lost in shallow madness, melodramatic existence mellowed down by Mary Jane kissing my lips, forgot that I'm supposed to speak in the third person, life too fast to be lived in first person, devolving to facial expressions being judged on screens, dislike and admiration, both ratios added and averaged with the average mans avarice, to be ideal, a church graced the window, the dimly lit blurry cross, cross with my dimwitted ways, A soul that resembled a hollow pipe, filled with crack to fill the cracks of a broken psyche with smoke, Stumbled out of the vehicle to visit Him, nearly killed by the vehement gaze of the dime left in the limo..
'Forgive me God, for I have sinned', for I spent fame like a honeymoon on a bad trip, with Mary Jane on my lips, a sad split, saved by a heroine, heroin, getting all I yearned for, spending my days submerged in my own vomit, merged sub-standard reality to dreams in this sea of stench, Wishing to use my slack gun on the pretty nun in black, to blow away my sins, her abstinence arouses this soul saturated with every shallow pleasure this life has to give, A slight smile despite my plight, could not afford the nun, so I wrote a check for the church, charity for the disparity between us, Forgive me God, for I have sinned..
I am whole Earth inside my own self. And I will not regret to turn into Pluto far away from genesis to get rebirth for my own sake. Real distruction doesn't clutch you and kill you. It will hold you and break you till you have mere nucleus inside your own world.
Delicate series of albino sheets wear a black compact cover, with DIARY studded on the top golden hue bath all those letters, drenched in sapphire calamine lotion carry veil of verses so obscure of soliloquy penned by honorary master. resting on the wooden shelter cradled under the mahogany table, locked safely behind the walls in limited space, dark and austere.
hodgepodge of markers,books pens and notepads get rowdy clanking on the busy lanes aloft the muddy sleek city. Once went there,I froze when placed amidst the chaos like a deer in the headlights.
wait until the sun glints off the roof racing skywards after a busy schedule, then those vibrant brown eyes nudge ecsort me for a daily rendezvous, beneath the scaffolding of dazzling stars where in gentle swaying motion the forever loving hands gracefully adore my body with fresh blue ink.
but there's no space to left to write the mantle of daily stories you narrate, for the last page also now communicates. no longer will the curious air attempt to flip my pages in the chilly night breeze, as I will be locked in an iron suitcase forever until my pages smell musty and the yellow tang make me look elderly .