The touch of thunder gesture what love could resist. I have bestow my spine in the devil's reign of companionship. His trembling fingertips paint a mascot of lovers. Lips still stammer at the call of belonging. I relive the smothered whiskey stained on the curves of your lips. Breaths are exchanged like residence for trespassers. He purges the lucid dreams where he tried escaping love. Now he strokes on my skin, with paints too hollow to be visible. The noise of surrendering is loud to be heard by love. He buries alive the cult of submissive. I plead for the devil to isolate myself from the terrors of love. The shunned voice of love, alarms for a withdraw. He triggers the barrier between us and love. I hail in the name of what lies ahead of love. He restrict the ways of love consumes me. I bleed on the thirst he urged me in. Only to be inclined to the reign of love.
Peaking through the nightfall, a bird is being caged. Emptied bowls of guiltless deeds, juxtapose the reason of living. Rustic smell of debris from the past living, swell the nostrils of new opportunities. Manipulating broken appliances, dull the facets of closure. Tuning in the same rhythms, rebounce the noice of yesteryear. Framing mosaic of ghost companion, dislocate the remedies of healing. Organized notions of settling, refuse to lead the way ahead. Dismantled sound of vacuum cleaner, tightens the grip on self believing. Pastel curtains on shield window, commute to a universe of sustainability. Stained doormat on the shunned pavement, awaits for a view of new wisdom.
Hindering beauty lay in the middle of mess. I evovle on the edges. Yesteryear hiccups traumatic gestures. I rush in a uptight manner. Neat shadows voice out vices of survive. I greet with a hurricane inside. Fragile growth hides demons caged from within. I hail to the ghost in me. Reckless yearn for escape feature longline agony. I mourn songs to be silent. Securing sanity forecast the reign of forbidden beast. I digress the curse of living. Prayers for remedial rescue fear the soul that breeds me. I nuture my being while people chant of the beast.
The sun showered flames of distant comfort. I stood by the greasing smell of burnt whispers. The knit basket contained Iris, smudged in the hope of believing again.
The day looked concerned about the delicacy of love. You tuned the rhythm of bravery, only to be kidnapped by the well of darkness.
Every corner of the mushed bed lead me to the rage of withholding. Timid blankets, sharp pillows, nostalgic nightstand, doomed clothes and beloved cigarette butts recited the harms caused by the worshiping in abandonment.
The day redefined how birds mourn for past deeds. You tried to hide the mess of agony, but shunned it at the pavement of loosened sustainability.
There are many ways to hail out the rigidity that smothered you. I chose the simple way to decay. The debris from your prolonged livelihood sinked in the harsh water. The rings of the sirens depicted the lucid cries of gathering sanity.
The day witnessed a crime of clenched existence. I wheeled the clocks of disturbance with my own plucked hands. Every single person behind the barrier of peace watched the drips of your sustainability flow through opaque spaces of my fingertips. No one preached the echoed voice of healing.
Mundane rituals of drifting were performed right in front of disappearing. The guest list was short yet deliberate enough to create noise of relief. The barren coffin healed a spirit of spilled wisdom. When my name was called, I yelp every bean of survival loaded in me. The tears on despicable faces were of apological deeds which didn't lay amongst the grid of solace I manifested.
The day seized memories of tiring liberty. The grave got dressed in the colour of withered Iris. I brushed my burnt fingertips on the glorifying tombstone of yours. The words glimmered the air with hollow affections. I kept reciting those words on my way to the pilgrim of forbidden norms. The letters still ring on every trespasser who convinced to breed them. The tombstone till now reads - "Death sees the beauty of a broken soul. It hums the whispers of blossomed tragedy. I once heard it through the reign of my beloved soulmate. I drift with the purpose of making it hear to all."
P. S.:- Inspired by the intense writing style of @bluebird
Tearing pieces of emotions erect a picture of smudged fame. Justifying every stem of pride I encountered. Glorifying gesture of pain conjure the spine of my poetry. Resolving fragile thorns which l consumed. Hustling stains of kindness restrict the burnt patch of discomfort. Mending relic patterns bleed out what I once created. Frightening from the tale of becoming develop a chain of glitch in my system. Filling up pages with yellow ink I somehow rekindled. Hailing to the clenched bushes devastated my inner voice. Projecting the art of healing I renowned myself. Blooming on the edge of wisdom through the creeks of agony. Reciting the same beauty of sustainability I began to write poetry.
Every name of past ghost weave a chain of discomfort. You name is the only one I can finish by the hour of dusk. It foams barrier between desire and conflict. Each syllable haunt space remaining in sanity. The consonants treasure heavy vices you always dwell on. I try to escape the reign they clenched me with. The vowels prevail your tunes of chaos. I learned to dream within those prolonged fibers. Your name is pronounced delicate when spelled backwards. I wrapped around the irony of resolving love. The blurry vision of imagination disappeared fallacy from your name. It still reside on the way to my home. Waiting for my disgrace to transform into wist. I keep reciting your name backwards. For its the one remedy you couldn't hand out to me. And l slowly watch your name turn into debris of my agony. Every name of past ghost weave a chain of discomfort. Maybe his name is next to yours.
At the edge of supremacy lies the vices of liberty. Sixteen inches apart braids the moist burden. A hook in the gestures proclaim recklessness. Delicacy with the pride conjure a dusty weather. Eight inches apart renders the reign of fulfilment. A halfway greet to responsibility treasure guilty. Hailing out to imagination vaccum the moist off field. Four inches apart weaves a land of creativity. A yearn for a catcher discovers redemption. Trespassing through the edges disgrace the facets of art. The power lies barren on the field. Hear the voice of solace through the catcher. At the edge lies the land of resurrection.
P. S.:- Inspired by many readings of "The Catcher in the Rye" by 'J. D. Salinger'.
Symphony of fortune, knit a suffocating nest. Debris from relic imagination, serves as a dessert to be gulp by sanity. Crumbs of paper cut, soak up the mushy water of resistance. Burns of graded sheets, babble the rhymes of responsibility. Pieces of ripped journal, cast a sharp showpiece of rigidity. Skin of binned books, secure protection of filed disappointments. Casette of futile lullaby, sink in a pool of ghosted delicacy. Ink of barren pen, rest on the long plank of restrictions. Holes in repressed drafts, peak a view at the uptight hospitality. Leftovers from lucid discomfort, vaccum the thick smell of guilt. Entrance towards hollow eternity, create spacious exit for the hostile environment. Wisps of loosened fatigue, dance by the blues on the merciful floor. Hums of resurrection time, buzz about the endless havoc of the same time. Scent of inked pages, write a new tale for the same rebellious dinner.
A space lies between desire and sanity. The space encompasses of doomed stability. It confess me to wear a mask. The mask has thorns which clinch on my esteem. My esteem floats on the banks of discomfort. It dwells on species with less futility. The barren roots gasp for a nearby exit. My roots uphold the same voids it was born with. It force me to preach the uncertainty of fulfillment. The restless hands absorb every bits of debris from the nothingness. My hands tremble on mere sight of belonging. It rejects the forum for a plea of companionship. A space lies between desire and sanity. The space encompasses of fragile sanity. As a war rises in the reign of repressed desire. For the cries of desire devastates the space.
Recklessness lie in the ways you avoid reality. Tendering the surreal beliefs of faith. You are stuck in a labyrinth of rituals. While l confide between sage and clarity. The lines you smudge narrate blunt wisdom. You are stuck in a labyrinth of agony. While l unknowingly render faded sorrows. The blues you hum unfold doors to reign of discomfort. You are stuck in a labyrinth of healing. While l constantly justify rigid forums for alienation. The poetry you burn unveil stories of failed satisfaction. You are stuck in a labyrinth of existence. Debris from the barren livelihood give you a new hope. Whispering prayers act like shunned echoes. As l witness the withering of your soul.
17:54:09 Somehow I still seem to remember the broken fibres of my faint memory stitched together by the sense of a longingness to forget; somehow I still seem to sew them again, with folded knots of 3 A.M nightmares. I always want to die, sometimes.
There was a limped plastic stool that used to fall over the third corner of our kitchen. I was sitting on the marble platform, peeling off onions with my bare hands, my nails used to sting and my grey eyes were already wet before gliding the knife with it's plastic edges melted by placing it on the stove. She came in, her hair tied in a whirl of another abused night. Somehow; she saw my tears, somehow, I deliberately believed hers were dry.
"What date is it today?" She asked, weighing over the stool. "13th. It's the 13th of November."
I had never seen her spring up to her tiptoe after she had found herself in love like I did that noon. She left; yet to smile at me again, bringing her sepia toned past memories drowning in that Maroon 1993 photographic album. I pushed back my hair by the aft of my carpals, with no interest in the backyard of her excitement.
"We looked beautiful that night. It's been a year since." "It's been a year since you looked beautiful together."
06:47:32 It's been a year since I looked at my cracked skin against the mirror with love. I know how miserably my soul peels off its veins; smiling at itself, I was told, it would get better; but tell me, does it ever? The reflection of my eyes still haunts me. There is a scar on my stomach, a dent over my knee; a love in my heart, a life it could be. But I hear you still, "You're beautiful; a little less than I am."
You came in like a heart attack. I'm sorry that I bother; exaggerate just you and I. That evening I gathered the pieces of my failed attempts to be transparent to your opaque eyes. And I wonder, if it would ever change; if you'll ever wish to be with someone as me.
It's been over a year since you told me that you're over me now; yet your presence still kept making me nervous to my bones. It's been over a year, why can't I let you go?
*I've told you So many times before But you never take it seriously And I know that it doesn't make much sense But you keep making me nervous, I wish you would feel nervous.* -MARO; Still Feel It All
15:14:13 I still reach out to the roots of that tree house you last touched me in. There lies a pair of boots that you lent me when I couldn't bother to wear my slippers on a rainy Sunday. That mud from your intentional jump to spill on me still sticks to its crust. I wish I could fit in; yet they don't accept me anymore.
Beneath that bed of yours, there still is that scrapbook you used to collect your inflorescence in for botany. I open it up, and most often I find a jasmine on the first page, with a dried edge yet fresh perfume. Other days, I see you plucking it off of the hair of a newly wed sitting in front of us in a fully loaded public bus, sniffing over and then placing it on my head. I still touch the corners of the pages of that diary you stole from me; the letters we wrote to each other, two inanimate objects; the photographs you secretly clicked of me.
I see you, in those photographs, and I still cry. I see, I still love you. A little less than myself.
I still look at that broken mirror; the day I held your hand and made the mistake to trust you. The way you stared at my face after giving me a temporary scar that made me bleed in solace, not long after I shared my cup of truth to you. Of who I am; the reasons of my being; the way I choose to love you, the way I never was given the choice.
And you blinked, "I hate you." I died, seven times in those seven minutes.
I still find myself sitting on your damp stuffed blanket; that evening when silence left me in hold of you, those lights, just like your eyes; bright, a little less than we were, a vibgyor, with no clear boundaries; a little more than between us. I still feel your torn hand running across my neck, beneath my jaw, I closed my eyes and felt sweet on my lips. "You simply stood up and left." Perhaps you forgot while running your pen in that letter; but I still remember how you whispered, "I love you." And my lip still hurt from two months back, I opened my eyes and saw my face in that broken mirror just to stand up and say, "I don't."
I still remember; standing at the edge of that river, I slipped, in black. Your voice still echoes in my heart, "13th of November. That's what's it's gonna be." 13th of November, I still remember how I called you and you didn't pick it up.
I still remember the way your mother looked at me with a smile so broken as mine on your funeral. Your body, with a broken foot; a face disfigured into an answer I don't wish to recognise. The way your letter melted in my hands; the way I felt those lies.
I thought, perhaps I loved you. A little less than you said you did.
19:04:00 She looked at me as if she didn't realise what I meant in a mundane brook of innocence. Yet her pulled down sleeves told me how those bruises held her veins in a territorial gaze.
"What do you mean?" "Why do you love him so much?" "For he does too."
That stool broke, flat on the floor, he came in my sight and asked her to hold his hand to the room. Keeping the photographs by the stove still burning in vain, she left in a blindfold. I dipped them into the fire, wishing they would melt without any ashes left for her to reminisce. I saw her smile burn to flames, hearing her screams from that room, those four walls I wish I could've broken down. A tear ran down my cheek, perhaps from the onion, or maybe from the fire blazing upto my eyes.
13th of November, I entered the room at 5:08 pm. I saw her sitting on the floor, watching over those broken bangles laying bare like an eclipsed moon. She was bleeding in vain, I sat down, with no interest in the backyard of her excitement, removing that blemish on her lip. It reminded me of a hatred I've been trying to forget. I touched her, and I had never seen her spring up to her tiptoe after she had found herself in love like I did that evening.
"He loves me, it's just a rough day for him." "Of course he does."
07:56:07 It's been a while since I felt you. I remember that jasmine you so loved; it had died but it's fragrance still alive. Still fresh. I wouldn't have held your hand and run mine through your hair if it wasn't for a stranger to ask me, "Did he know that you loved him?"
Tell me, did you know?
I stood by your grave that night. 11:54 P.M I asked you. And I heard, a voice so bleak.
*I'm just a-waiting for day to break Is this love or just a mistake? I'm just a-waiting for day to break How long will it take? Waiting for day to break Do you love me? Do you love me? Put somebody else above me Just don't leave me here alone.* -Daybreak; Cody Simpson
I felt my lips sweet from yours. I heard your beating chest, your smell over me. I saw you wear that un-ironed shirt of yours that I had gifted you. You hated it yet loved it for I did; just a little less than me.
I heard you whisper, "I love you." To who I wasn't. And in that moment I had my answer, "I don't." To who you never were.
She looked me in the eye and with a clench on my wrist she whispered, "Even if he doesn't; I always will."
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?
You talk in Half finished words The sentences appear To be suspended On the edge Of a cliff And I wait For your lips To take the Plunge, the seconds Pass by, one After the other We try to Live an infinity Not knowing when The next one Might pass away.
I watch your Face, as white As a sheet Bars of sunlight Fall upon your Scarred wrists, and The ochre shadow Holds you prisoner It reminds you Of fire, but Not of warmth The embers start To fade away And the last One dies with The midnight sun.
All these words We speak with Such pride, have Been stolen and Plucked from the Graves of the Dead, all the Stories we tell Have been told To wide eyed Children sitting underneath A starlit sky We could have Been pioneers in A different age But today, we Are thieves, and That's all we Will ever be.