I have questions to ask and no one to answer Trapped in the woods Between stomped sunflowers. A knife in my back pocket And love for an hour, I will lose my mind And Stitch my wounds To look like a fairytale And the lavender that bloomed. Wandering under the sun Outrunning the dark One wish I want to live young Transitioning my broken heart.
I wrote to you some months back, I don't remember precisely But I guess it's 8 months 3 days and I am still waiting. Take your time, I am much used to this longing I don't remember when was the last time I stopped waiting.
Are you intrigued to know that last month I got beaten up, and my eyes swelled up, for the things I didn't do? Probably I should start talking. mind you, I am still waiting.
Call it what you want, my quest for you or loneliness in the queue. Intrigued to know where I live? Under the red skies near the black sea.
And I guess I am blinded to know this longing is vast than a sea; What you deserve is, more than me.
Some Days I outrun my patience Those days I colour my self with red With this, my skies turn grey 2 days and no tears left to shed.
Whom I am telling this? To nobody because they are listening. Mind you, I am still waiting.
We learn things with time, and one thing I am constantly learning but not accepting is that I cannot be the ocean in everyone's life I can be the bystander, but the word itself feels very turmoil to me. For years I belittle this word so much that now it disgusts me. When I have my own bystander in life the idea of me being someone's bystanders disgusts me and this makes me an ironic thinker whose own mind is not evident nor the writing.
It's a flaw in me that, I cannot stand to be dispensable to someone because that makes me feel I am not enough, And that's why I am a bystander. The fervour of priority and usefulness has always been craving for me. The constant efforts to be useful to people make me feel good about me that gives a sense that I can wash my sins, this thought sounds selfish because it is. And I am okay to admit it as this post is all about my flaws and accepting them.
The foremost thought that I can't see someone going through the same misery as I did, triggers the sense of comfort in me that it comes naturally To be honest. And now this doesn't make me a superhuman in their life I am just another human, who gave shoulder when needed. I can not be needed constantly is set as an alarm on my phone.
I feel nothing while I am admitting this because I let it out when I ultimately accepted it and now I can work on the road of headway handily. And the first step will be, being an ocean for myself.
At the rush hour of my anxiety I will leave on a sleepless night. Taking a new road, near the snow Somewhere far I will go.
Like the dull star in the dark sky I will flee with every night Maybe on some sterile land, I will grow Alone under the sun; But somewhere far I will go.
Between the woods- I traverse; The Ocean - I survived On the way seeds,- I sow On the sunrise Somewhere far I will go
Near the wishing fountain,- I pray And I don't have a coin My hands joint - I say, Stop me nowhere Withdraw my shadow On my tree near the snow I will sleep now, On the sunrise; Somewhere far I will go.
Humans get used to things And suffering feels mundane life.
The year is about to end and plentiful things are still on hold. Seems like nothing has changed in massive content.
Tragically I was missing Rain like every year and to my awe, today it rained in December, I am startled because the universe listening to me are rare happenings. I am thankful though, I will have a good sleep in this rush hour of rain.
Walking down the pavement, The flowers which I love grew in crevices of the road are withered now. They scent like you, I wonder in how many things I have kept you, that now even walking reminds me of you.
Remember when you asked for a promise, I have been a fool. Promises in my reckless hands are like rains in December.
Wishing this moment will last forever, but everything dies If I dive too deep, tell me not to, breathless moments often are the reason for the death.
It's a total eclipse of reverence between you and me and we are on the periphery of the problem we will be crashing tonight.
I will be saving a few tears for a what-if, we crossroads again.
Hair under armpits is a metaphor to show how much of a taboo this subject is and how often it is undermined and overshadowed. We often try to shave the hair under our arms, and also sweat and bad smell often accumulates there and we try to cover it with deodorant. So hair under armpits basically refers to something unpleasant that we try to hide in order to appear more appealing. The way we try to hide the blatant sexualising of MILs, DILs, Sisters maids etc
So I daily wake up and chose pain to wear over my skin.
There's a faded black t-shirt messily thrust between my other clothes. I am a little ardent in not letting it be thrown away so I argue with my mother.
Maa, if you are listening to me then I want to tell you that your daughter feels herself in that faded black t-shirt. She wants to keep this immortal thing close just like those poems, your '24/7 dedicated towards family' heart wouldn't understand. And your daughter wants you to never understand them either, I know if you do, you would feel all the pain on your heart, from the toe ring to the red in your hairline, in your every atom, you would be able to feel all the pain your daughter has been eating upon all these days.
Maa if you are listening to me (please don't) I feel myself fading like that faded black t-shirt. I see myself daily spinning in the soapy water of a never-ending war, I slip and never get up. There's an experience, there's a mature understanding which flew and perched on my broken windows, the boy at my guitar class looks at the sky through the glass window and tells me that he loves the maturity I hold in my bones.
I walk back to home with 'maturity in my bones' and lay on my bed till the sky paints itself black. Maa, what do I do with all this maturity when it costed a life. A life, my life. I have round brown eyes to look at life with a mature way but I don't have a soul left to look at life in any way.
All this experience I hold in my hands is like peace after a war. I am bleeding, fresh wounds are still there, then how can I flex over this experience past situations left at my door.
Maa, the hair you oil daily, they still smell of war, they still smell of all the times I pulled harshly onto them when downfalls were biting on my skin. All this experience is similar to the dullness taking over my black t-shirt after all the washes it has gone through and maa I see you are in the mood to throw it away. You tell me that it doesn't look good on my skin now and I want to tell you that all this skin on me also doesn't look good on me now. I daily soak in the sun of the hope notes I write, but maa I am fading away.
Can I keep this black t-shirt with me to remind me that all the faded isn't thrown away? That though faded I am meant to exist. Maa, are you listening (please don't).
/ *As I write this, I know, how badly am I going to feel this in a few months.* /
To the streets, that I can navigate through, with my eyes closed. Would you long for the trails of my footprints, when I would be walking past some congested roads of a cosmopolitan city leaving just another couple of untraceable imprints or would you just forget me with the last rain that would wash away my existence from over you?
To the food stalls, that offered me a little-extra bite over every one else. Would you await my return, when I would be munching over the same pizza-slices of some renowned restaurant which could nowhere settle my quest for your taste and flavour or would you replace me with just another face that would befriend you after me?
To the houses, I shifted from and to the "home" that marked its permanence. To the ones, that I owned and to the one, that owns me. Would your walls , echo my voice in anguish when no lips would chirp around, day in and day out? Would my room adjust in silence when I would be struggling silently to adjust in a cubicle? Would you hold on to my sticky-notes or would you consider them a burden? Would you stay the same, unfurnished yet heavenly or would you renovate yourself to dissolve all of my memories under your new layer of paint and marbles that won't be of my choice?
// To the new city, that promises me faith to uplift my life. Bricks of my hopes and hues of my happiness are cultivated in my hometown, honey. How would you manage to create me another paradise? //
@laughing_soul Ma'am, you being a senior writer here, I'd like if you look into this matter and write a mail regarding this to Mirakee. This is utter stupidity. @lovenotes_from_carolyn . All of you senior writers, Please express your thoughts on this, personally I feel Poetry or any Kind of Art shouldn't be Censored at all !!!