Got my work published with Split poetry India ,it's such an honor to be the part of this great anthology "You & Me". Special mention to one and only my selfie partner Amrisha. It's because of u I started writing on first place and also a special thanks to Mirakee for providing me the platform where I brushed up my literary skills and developed writing as a hobby. When I started I could hardly write a quote ,today my full length poems are getting published in several anthologies and all that happen because of Mirakee ,I learned a lot from fellow writers ,it's such a great place to express ourselves ,truly happy to have discovered Mirakee 3 yrs back ,never have I ever in my dream have thought of writing but it happened and Mirakee u were my constant in my journey , extremely grateful to this platform .Will share the work soon with the launch of the book .It's ecstatic to be a co-author . @writersnetwork@mirakee@mirakeeworld
There's a part of me that wants to let go of the nostalgia kissing my obtrusive today, again there's a different part of me that says otherwise. Our mind itself is the abode of chaos and we turn the music too high to hear the noise. We are bothered, you, me, all of us! by little details we pretend to not care about. Clutching the hem of my not so favourite skirt I start walking towards a bruised memory meandering towards a hardened oblivion. I like my existence like the secluded corner of your bedroom, some dusted journals and some broken quills.
Someday, I'm going to paint the skies orange from a broken crayon and ally with the clouds to stay forever. I've emptied myself to the skies in the most metaphorical way possible, I'm susceptible to voids, I know. It's just that artistic romanticism of seasons dawn upon me as a mirage because at the end no one writes you an eulogy on a maple leaf. No living person calls a grave home by ushering dried orchids on the cemetery, as a living being these are nothing but myths we tend to hold on to.
We count our age by the number of heartbreaks, two and you're still young. Something that bothers me on a slack sunday afternoon is how are we try to fit in to anyone's stories, I want to know if it's the only thing we're living for. There are things I want to do besides trading my soul with the one who fits in, I want to sit back and count the colours of a rainbow, stich my torn T-shirt , not crush a leaf next time I'm walking on soft mud. For instance, I want to really stop caring about precision and not just pretend. A summer away from now, I'd be writing an epistle to the 18 year old me telling me that it's okay if you don't fit in anyone's stories, just go make your own.
P.S- You don't end things, ever. It's just a suitable pause where you feel like you've said enough and you stop. I won't be ending this too, because someday someone might stumble upon and tell you about all the things I missed. This stays.
Hundreds of thoughts clogging my mind, as it fails to whip them down in the paper. I watched over my window hoping to find new metaphors hiding along the cobblestones and leaves, the zephyrs dancing with the sky in the backdrop, the birds soaring along the clouds grey and white. Dubbing the colours, I watched as they lost their essence and certitude to my heart. The brownish red on the leafy greens, seem to embrace the autumns nevermore. The azure shade of the sky wasn't that intriguing to make me crave for the wings once again. In a trice, everything looked dull as if you inhaled every colour with your breath; the only difference this time was you refused to exhale.
My poetries were the tomb of broken strings, which once bound us as the shadow mingling with the body in the darkness. The strings, which once used to play the cadence of our entwined breaths. The tomb echoes your last words, through the husky landline phone. The sound resonates myriad pictures suffocating under the heaps of numerous sunsets we shared, every dawn once scattering its presence among the tiny spaces betwixt us. The tomb perched on the grave, I've been cremating since the day you left. Every new day, would there be another layer of our memories for me to bury. As I cremate some, I keep aside some another; for me to live in those moments once more. "I will leave you behind some other day," I would say and continue along with the bondage of your grip over my soul.