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  • iamjass 2w

    I want to make no sense this time.
    I abhor when pain makes sense and
    all I hear is claps, louder.

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    The past is a cigarette
    Blisters are ashes
    and my heart is an ashtray

    My time is an attic
    gradually observing sunset, only them
    Faded crimson enters, sleeps on my bed
    through the perfectly memorised windows
    Rue curl up when the whiff writes to me
    And I've been a culprit for decades
    for being amiss midsentence
    rushing behind happy dreams
    which make me less happy, each time
    I wake up, wide open, jolted by sunlight
    Some nights are long enough, stretched out
    to the oblivious apocalypse
    when I penn defeated words, chaotic rhymes
    and the disordered stanzas boast of pain
    They are loud enough to suppress the claps

    So I try to escape a room, with no door
    whose walls are all cracked up, painted hazel blue
    I try to hide the cracks with frames of tomorrow
    frames of light, caffeine and songs
    I walk over places, owned by humans
    looking for frames, more and some more
    But they clap, only clap, keep doing that
    And I come back, jogging, heaving, sighing

    So I sleep early and try to dream
    where I collect uncountable frames
    and name them happy dreams
    Where a friend from a book asks how I am
    how hard it was, has been, perhaps
    where a friend says to let mazes go
    not to read dead letters, sing blue
    Where a friend holds me, my shards, together
    a friend, warm, comfortable to gaze at
    Who says it's okay, if not, it will be
    Who pats my back, strokes my hair
    who smiles and I smile too

    And some mornings are rainy
    some dreams are rusty, so they break
    and I wake up with bags
    in my cold blanket


  • iamjass 3w

    Dear Me,
    It's for you.

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    Like First Snow

    Once her words were at War
    An inky massacre,
    the War went on
    pulling her back and forth, overnight
    Like shotgunned birds, her words kneeled
    Her demons prowled, fed on broken nib
    Stars found her on her knees
    Begging mercy to the voids
    Peeling off the skin of rue

    The healer house of cards collapsed
    like the rain on the headlights,
    a song of fascinating destruction
    Her dreamcatcher betrayed
    Nightmares did own the thorne, Oblivion
    and defeat was inevitable

    She, a drunk poetess
    High on downpours of yesterday
    Trembling feet of her obnoxious mind
    and sharp edges of blistering vows,
    stuffed inside the bags
    under her eyes, flung over her shoulders
    She carries a couple of years on rainy nights
    She counts steps, misses and counts again
    Screams from yesterday, call a war
    Her words fall, facedown, break

    She envies storytellers
    who tell fine stories and sleep at night
    as she watches the rain,
    singing lullabies to the gravediggers
    who dig in, deeper and finish burying at night

    The rusty castle of peace,
    the garden of her words,
    her cherished Lobelia and Lavender,
    Carnations and Orchids,
    wall mats and adored doodles
    And her eyes and soul ;
    slipped, fell, like a domino,
    shaping a premature demise, a stain, misery
    Flames of anguish scramped her ramparts
    those she built throughout her youth
    to protect the graves
    of her whimps, tiny euphorias and Love,
    from the tides of time
    for the little life, she has

    The kid, she used to harbour
    The heart, she used to believe in
    The anatomy, she took care of
    Her November evaporated
    Her petrichor, lost
    And Dandelions, never returned

    She, a becoming
    The Pain truly remembers her
    since the very day they kissed

    She, a poor refugees
    for whom Words are too luxurious to afford
    as it has been long
    since she left for a place
    where nobody writes but carries baggages

    She, an eye of a storm, numb
    rose with the air, stroking the remnants
    and fell like snowflakes,
    absense of colours

    like first snow



  • iamjass 6w

    The agony you know isn't always a bad guy
    Someday, give him your lap to cry
    He wouldn't leave you with your eyes, dry



    UPDATE : Thank you so much for this honour @mirakee and @writersnetwork ❤️

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    Someday it rains, inside and outside
    when the ancient blisters ache
    and I see him, lonely,
    walking past the school goers
    not looking at the enticing river,
    giggling and wandering dandelions
    He keeps going
    like a stereotyped emperor
    like, swimming and floating across the heart
    of a mazarine ocean who loves voyages
    of torn refugees and doesn't await his river

    Someday I see him
    at my most abandoned metro stations
    feeding on the forbidden footsteps
    coughing through the dust layers
    with a half torn sweater, doesn't nullify the ice
    untangling memories with a rusty muffler
    Scribbling a novel of mundane deaths
    of soldiers, young souls and good

    On thunderstorms, I run past him
    He sits beside the beggers and orphans
    the chimes of some forbidden air bells,
    cry of coins as they fall onto aluminium
    He sighs with the homes, without celling
    He sniffles along with the broken bulbs
    I run past him, I run faster, I fear the rain
    I fear the faces, go amiss amidst the downpour
    So I run, panting, someday I look back
    I see bygone, merciless
    And I see him, a blamed bystander

    He has many overcoats, cover him up
    Grey, blue and black were his favourite, perhaps
    Once he broke into the beach of my site
    and I saw his eyes screaming, falling
    his lilac lips, pressed hard against yells
    as if his anatomy wanted an end
    of something I'm unaware of
    He had songs, embedded on epitaph
    He flew like crispy dried petals of graveyard
    It was a blue twilight, his vision stretched
    to an aching horizon, stars don't even visit
    My heart broke, the moment our eyes met
    He blinked some drops, collected his jar of scars

    Walking past me, he smelt of a pure drunkard
    High on frowns, tears and screams
    yet sober enough with silence

    Yesterday, I grabbed a handful of him
    on the floor of attic, I abandoned my childhood
    Afar from the warmth of a logfire
    with some crumpled letters, on his knees
    He was tired, we shared silence
    He had always been that way
    silent, decent, mystic, unchanged, inextricably
    important and yet ignorant, forsaken
    He rattled and told me stories
    like a dusty window panel does to a lost bird

    We sobbed like deeply buried shards
    and tossed a handful of vows
    onto the corpse of our tomorrow
    We kissed, we kissed some more
    He smelt like black coffee and crushed cherry
    Yet he didn't hold my hand,
    take me in his arms, any further

    He walked past me
    like always

    I asked his name before he left
    I remember he told me

    He said his name, Pain



  • iamjass 6w

    Stars do know.

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    Someday, my most secret nightmares dream.
    They dream, see me sleeping, a serene sleep,
    for a long time, for a very long time,
    without the bags underneath my eyes.



  • iamjass 8w

    Rambling. Detouring.

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    Metro Stations

    Underneath the soil
    once, used to lie bones and desires
    now, walking stones roam there
    and a bit of here and there, of There
    Pursed lips, worried eyes, crooked smiles
    Clock kisses perfect fightures
    and horde of living ghosts run, walk and move

    I stand stationary
    amidst the faces, familiar
    a little less, a little more, someday, some days
    I'm fortunate
    for I'm no blessed one,
    I do neither master telepathy nor face-reading
    I stay afar from chaos, I breathe
    Or else these footsteps would've said
    poems of blue nights, sharp edges and oblivion
    Faces would've been drenched canvas
    of tears and rue, of causality and mazarine
    of paradoxes and orthodoxes

    I make no eye contacts
    Those lifeless eyes, I do fear
    Some are red, some died and
    some search the innocents like a hungry wolf
    They are eyes of a City
    You will know, certainly, with a glimpse
    They tell no truth, they impose no dream
    they don't look up at sky
    They roam in places, abandoned with sky

    And the train comes anyway
    like a dramatic death
    and I can't help but be fascinated
    We sympathise each other
    We wander alone, to and fro, someday, afar

    The door closes behind me
    I sit amidst cold corpses
    Nobody makes eye contact
    Some hide red eyes,
    some, busy in pleasing someone,
    from a distant corner across the globe

    I hurry, we hurry, the train hurries, it moves
    It waves at the station
    leaving behind some more corpses
    some more eyes and warm lips
    cold finger tips and void of chests
    Some more and yet some, more
    The station smiles back

    The whistle is grey
    but the dust layers don't mourn
    people don't look up at sky
    They don't sigh, neither do I
    I dive into words
    I daydream of my favourite stranger
    The next whistle breaks my daydream
    and my heart, as well

    Someday I hide the red eyes
    and roam a little longer at station
    The train leaves
    I see, them, leaving
    Something, leaves
    And it aches less

    Goodbyes are too usual



  • iamjass 10w

    War ends and so does life, sometimes.
    Love is exception, someday, sometime.


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    Lavender and You

    The sky is a Newspaper and
    the rain droplets are headlines.

    Maria, by this time, I assume, you know the truth. I'm home. I'm sitting right next to you. Now here you go. Looking over your shoulder. I see your drenched eyes, clenched teeth and your hands shivering. Shivering hard, crumpling the letter I wrote,
    on purpose.

    Tell your heart, Maria, tell your eyes not to look for me. I'm trying to blend with air. I will walk past your curls behind the ears, the curls over your forehead and temples. I will walk past, kissing the salty cheeks, sweat mopped canvas. I will walk past, kissing you. Slowly.

    Don't blame yourself, Maria. Your prayers took voyage oversea. They kept me sane. They sang me lullabies when bullets were perfectly shaped chaos, tyrant nightmare. I remember your pretty little adorable mole on your left shoulder.
    That reminds me, you are mine.

    It's okay even if I couldn't make it home. It's okay if I couldn't die resting my lips against yours, gently pressing it ; holding you in my arms. It's okay, Maria. It is. Even if I end up amidst grey and red, holding proudly the flag on and across my chest, with the layers of flesh and rage, I won't regret.
    I don't have a single one.
    You were with me, you see. With the very dawn, with splashing cold water, with an enticing song, you were. With smiles and hope. With twilight and rain. With love and my beating heart. You were with me, Maria. And so let no river flow across your cheeks.

    Smile for me, Maria. For our love. For us. I will become dandelion and rain. I will be sky, falling onto you. I will be the last zephyr of dusk. I would listen to you, your silence. You won't be alone. I will tell the stars. They will say all my love poems to you.

    So now, let me go Maria. Let go of me. Slowly. Keep the memories. The love. And everything your heart harbours for good. With all the agony and regrets,
    let go of me.

    All these days I have believed lifetimes and aftermath, on purpose.

    So I promise. I will keep coming. I will come beside the garden of lavenders. Like I did. Like we met in this life. Wait for me. And perhaps I will ask you for an address which doesn't exist. Probably I would blabber about weather, awkwardly. Promise me you would giggle and blush like blossom, Maria. Like you did in this life. Promise me.

    Promise me you would fall for me, again. Beside the lavenders. You and I. Lavender and you. And Love.

    // Lavender and You //


  • iamjass 11w


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    The New Town

    Yes, the day had come, finally. The day, i was supposed to see my grandmother.

    The place used to be a village when i last breathed amidst the thin air of. The fresh exercise of inhaling and exhaling – couldn’t love that more. My heart never missed to pound against the ribcage whenever i used to hear from her. A small conversation. Perhaps two or three, in a month. Wrinkled and shivered voice used to pat me and i, always used to conclude the chat by sniffing the grandma-smell and feeling her affectionate wrinkled hands around me. My pampers and pleads never got tired of knocking the doors of approvals. The village, the tiny stream, sunlight soaked roads, rolling tires with bunch of euphoria and my best friend ever, the banyan tree; they all used to beckon me. It was a tree for Earthly humans but appeared like a mother to me and i surely was her girl. In winter, she was a mother. In monsoon, she was a friend and in autumn, she was my stranger, a hidden companion. A taller box of secrets, she was. I feared humans. I couldn’t speak their languages of jealousy, selfishness and lies and of course their kind of Love, they never counted me in. So i used to tell her all my secrets. She was high enough to protect them. I used to smile at her and she, adored our own little secrets. After the uncountable persuasions, resembling the stars at night, the permission to go to see grandma used to come like dawn, soothing, full of hopes, smiling at me, a little more.

    Grandma. Green. Purity. Pineapples. Charisma. Crickets. Tires. Trees. The banyan tree. All my friends awaited me.

    But the ambiance didn’t last long.

    On a rainy night, like the fate changing scene of a film, the spoiled kid named, Civilisation ; was born and cried like a chaos which made my little happy place drift away onto astray. Now the spoiled kid is a year old. And that day was our first encounter.

    The first stone onto my glass-like heart – we were going by bus, taking the way of a bridge instead of steamer to cross the stream. They made her put on a shackle. A grey bridge. It grinned at me. It was victorious in refraining me from seeing my friend, her soul. I looked back. The bridge was all along with the faded site of mine but never my friend. I heard her in air. She flowed like goodbyes. The paperboat wept in my backpack.

    The bus stopped. I got down to walk on the red carpet of regrets. I had my heart. I had my paperboat. Both were heavy, trust me.

    Few steps more and i would be at the core. The street lights, the public telephone booth, the e-mall, multi storied buildings ; they all scanned me, dissected my face, heart and lastly my invisible tears. Few steps more. And those were dangerous.

    Tires were replaced by piles of books. Race slaughtered dreams. Grey gulped green down. The spoiled kid was grinning all along the way. Like dust and asphalts, monstrous vehicles, posters and facetoons, pages and like dead trees. There is a fine line between Peace and Silence. And this new town was deafened with silence, abandoned with peace.

    Tree! My heart skipped a beat. For a moment it was too silent just like the moment followed by a thunderstorm. Then it spoke. Loudly. Louder. More and more. Slowly eating me up.

    So i ran. I ran at the peak of my breaths. Surfing with the pants. And i stripped at the correct spot. She wasn’t there. I was on my knees and she, invisible.

    We, humans hardly absorb love, consume it, crave or paint it ; i assume. That kind of love, a handful, serene and silent. We want to hear love so we chase words. We want to eat love, so we chase land. We want to buy love so we chase money. And some great peeps want to love Love so they chase humans. We don’t in fact Can’t feel it underneath our every ounce.

    I was on my knees, on an arina where flesh defeated souls. I came late. Too late. So my tears were my apology. The only friend i had was the air. It embraced me and we wept. We wept some more. She loved us, she let us live. She loved us with her departure, silently. She loved us, she kept us alive for years and we, we loved us too so we chopped her off.

    I was on her grave. My tears were flowers to her grave. My secrets were orphans.

    Somehow i greeted her grave. The New town.


  • iamjass 12w

    Finally I'm home.
    I missed ya @mirakee ♥️

    UPDATE : Thank you so much @mirakee my home, and @writersnetwork for showering your love upon these mere words.

    And also thank you to all the people who loved this and appreciated it.

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    Death wears hues
    so do the grim reapers
    Orange and pale yellow when a leaf falls
    Ultramarine, seeing a ship sinking
    Red at the borders or perhaps on arinas
    Summer Rose, on mature deaths
    Grey on pre-mature ones
    Green sheet, over the dead trees
    And black on contamination

    I appear to be a poet
    Death loathes me
    I dream of eternity, more and more
    I breathe a bless of words
    and wake up in the arms of promises
    to come back over and again
    For this soil, this rain, this whiff
    those stars and maybe for a wish
    I am supposed to give a shape to
    I want to come back
    to love, to live and to die to be born, again

    Love dies, so does life and promise

    Words frown
    I lack faith on undying love
    I would argue with a verse but love dies
    On a fine evening, beside a glass of wine
    at the murkier nights and unwanted dawns
    Love dies on the floor, beside the window sill
    and somewhere afar

    Sometimes love has flesh
    We call beloved, humans, some days
    A person before you, dies
    the anatomy is a container
    of flesh, dead butterflies, paused blood
    heart with dead whims, brain with hot blood
    The person won't speak again
    The person, someone's love
    In someone's verse, she will be born

    Sometimes love has a home
    It appears to be a Heart
    Humans burn it, someday
    They break it, stab it, make it bleed hard
    So the love dies
    And in the verses of deep blue night,
    the buried love breathes, calmly

    Some grim reapers are white
    so are some deaths
    They are good adults
    They draw a paradise, a reincarnation
    They nurture the oblivious desires
    And so the refugees build a home up
    Motels grow up into a home
    Flesh learns to love
    Woods become paper
    Eyes learn to daydream
    Love breathes again
    Near, afar, somewhere, as far as we can see

    Rather I would tell the verses
    I would sing them the syllables of love
    that reincarnates, over and again
    In the arms of promises
    In the arms of sniffing petrichor
    In the arms of satisfaction
    after finishing a gem like book
    In the arms of dawn, orange autumns
    and with the flow of sakura blossoms
    In the name of spring and stars
    warm sweaters, old photographs
    arm chair, old wines and lavender
    In the arms of Friendship

    And in the name of Love



  • iamjass 12w

    Try not to blame me, if I don't write tomorrow.

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    1765 days ago :

    To point the exact place out, I'm unable. I apologise. But certainly it is inside the ribcage, left shifted. Your fingers might be searching for the place onto your skin or perhaps mine. You will feel the warmth of flesh and running blood. For me, it is warm too, a little less.

    1544 days ago :

    This warm is yellow at twilight. This warm is cold during November rains. This warm is grey when I am home. This warm used to be me. When I was Me. And myself was I.
    Well the place, it's somewhere at the left side, inside my ribcage. Something is little bit noisy there.

    1289 days ago :

    A sound. One, two, three and then seventy two.
    Again one, two, three, four and seventy two.
    Like this. Two minutes. Three minutes.
    Fifteen. Twenty minutes. Forty. An hour.
    Five hours. Seventeen hours.
    A day. Days. Weeks. Some more weeks.
    A month. Season.

    975 days ago :

    The river which people call Time, flows. She goes on, walking, running and dreaming to meet her ocean. Perhaps Oblivion.

    672 days ago :

    And so my left-side place remains noisy. Day and night. With stars and crescent. Dandelions and fallen leaves. And everything that move and also don't.

    209 days ago :

    but somewhere, perhaps bit by bit, slowly the remenats, pieces are being frozen, stone-like. Someday it would be as a whole. The noise would be there but the warmth. An icy garden would it be perhaps where even the wildflowers won't even visit. Cobwebs would be the woollen cloths for regrets. And I, I would be humming dead letters to Oblivion.
    A place where words would no longer be peeping through. A place too cold for poetry. Piled up ink blots. And edges of every broken nib, sharp and fragile.

    Today :

    A place like this has become, the left side of my ribcage. Grey and mundane. Cold and cursed. A place, the words have abandoned, the dandelions have forgotten, the rain has forsaken. A place. Just a place.

    So then, I hum the dead letters and let my nib sleep, for a long time. A very long time.


  • iamjass 13w

    Seeing the stars, the empath smiles
    calmly, alone, a little more heartbreakingly


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    She sets apart the melancholic petals
    from the flowers she comes across
    and adorns her blue graveyard
    deep inside her ribcage

    / floral graveyard /