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  • iamjass 1w

    Writers

    I looked at a pair of red lips
    I gazed at beard
    They are different people
    But their hands are the same
    They scribble, a special name
    of love

    You claim
    they live in past
    So I too look at them
    the same way

    They seem afar
    wrapped with the petals of could've been(s)
    Souls, peripheral beauty
    still filling colours in others

    You claim they live in past
    I too see that way
    They seem
    inside the petals of bygone
    still painting the sky
    at sunset

    You claim they live in past
    I too see that way
    They seem afar
    like a moon, crescent
    But I wonder
    what would happen
    if they start living at present


    -jasmine

    ©iamjass

  • iamjass 2w

    Okay. I'm back. *grins*
    Oh btw. Hi.

    Read More

    Purple

    Sometimes I want to ask them, the wildflowers
    how it feels when breeze hit them, hard
    Like a human who plucks them too often
    and why they still chase those breeze
    what colour their tears are
    I want to know

    I want to ask some wallflowers
    how well they know History
    Is History a Man? or a Woman?
    I want to know his skin colour
    I want to know how he looks at women
    If it is a woman, I want to know
    why she had been crying all this time
    after making love, after offering her hand
    why she didn't offer the love to herself
    the love she offered to somebody else, easily


    Maybe I know these all
    I knew them that day,
    when it all didn't work the way it was supposed to

    I was supposed to have a place in your heart
    when I opened the temples in me, for you
    The temples, between my legs, between my lungs
    But a part of me that didn't enter you
    came back to me, refugee
    and turned the temples into graveyards
    The epitaphs have your names, very different
    And a broken mirror that only reflects me

    I want to ask someone why the agony is Blue
    and not Red, Crimson or Lilac
    A river comes to its ocean
    but when it's lost or just wants to stay for its valley
    Is it that time when the ocean turned blue
    Or reflecting the sky when the beloved
    raindrops fell and didn't go back
    I don't know where the ocean goes when it's in pain
    agonised as its river didn't come


    Maybe I know it all
    But I shut the windows and doors long ago
    And I don't let the wind in anymore



    -jasmine

    ©iamjass

  • iamjass 3w

    Dear Mirakee and Mirakeeans,
    Can I come home tonight?

    Read More

    On the sizzling sand I stood,
    stood like an arid land
    A lonely twilight whispered into my ear
    And I know not what made love to my tear
    Thousands of blue cascades,
    they held back no longer

    I ran towards the unnamed city
    where bygone still comes at night
    I thought I would live there until I die
    Growing thorns, healing cracks on wall
    Pretending I never met words
    Fighting swords with Swords

    But now
    when after thousand of eclipses
    it rains, it floods but still stays dry inside
    My tomorrow, can I come home tonight?

    -jasmine
    ©iamjass

  • iamjass 11w

    Hello. Hi. Bye. Bye.

    Read More

    Dear Women,

    Let's not include men into this. Let's keep this talk among us. Shall we?

    Learn to respect your own kind. Enough fingering at men.

    If you are on road and you see another one of your kind is being bullied, please raise your voice as well. Please don't show her your back and just walk off. You might be in the same misery one day.

    If the girl sitting beside you does well in academic, learn from her. If she is a bit prettier than you( though you are beautiful as well in a unique way), appreciate her. If she is facing trouble, please don't jeer at her but support her. If she has a weird fashion sense (according to you), try to know her.
    If she chooses to wear bold clothes, call her brave. If she chooses to wear clothes that reveal skin, please don't judge her. It's her choice.

    If she let her hair grow in some dark places and all over her skin, let her. She looks pretty that way too.

    If her curves are a bit bulkier than yours, please don't make her feel uncomfortable. If she wants to eat food as much as you want to stay away from them, let her do so. Support her. And also, if her curves are more sensual than you, even then it's okay. Your aura is your own. And that's a million times prettier than curves.

    If she is a bit manly, protect her. She might have a fragile side as well. And if she doesn't cover her mouth while laughing out aloud, it's okay. Let her do so. Join her.

    Keep your voice low even if your mother is scolding you and you know that she is wrong somehow. Make her understand the fact when she is calm. Please don't blame her when she can't support you in front of your father when he wants to cage a free bird like you. Your mother is just like you, once a hopeless lover. She just loves your father very much. And that does not mean she loves you any less. Please don't forget that it is she who brings you snacks and your favourite cup of tea/coffee when you fight, having exams around the corner.

    Please don't keep telling a woman to fall in love, to fall into a man's arm. If she chooses to stand alone, brighter, shining and having her head first. Let her. Respect her. Wish best for her freedom.

    If she comes home after breaking off her marriage. Share her pain. Hear her out. She might have something unspoken.

    Start with you, when you would be a mother-in-low, love your daughter-in-law as if both of you are not in-laws. Teach your son that his wife would be the one taking the decisions about children and sex because it's her body.

    If the number of boys she had had dated has exceeded the so called boundary (set by our sexist society), please don't judge her. She is in a quest. She is searching for love and safety. She is yet to find one.

    And at last but not the least, if a women falls for its own kind, wants to kiss another pair of red lips, let her. It's time to make those words real, "Love has no gender"

    And while you are doing these, please don't forget to love yourself also.

    -jasmine
    ©iamjass

  • iamjass 21w

    Cigarette And After Sex II ~the grey



    // 20 mm burnt //


    The curves on the peach bed sheet were a maze where our bodies ran like maze runners, our thoughts tangled. We couldn’t have had enough of each other. But now i give it a second thought. Maybe he wanted to make up for the weekend. Maybe he felt guilty for the phone calls he made when i pretended to sleep. Maybe something else.

    It was not our eyes that met when i got out of bed this morning. It was drizzling outside. And a kite had made its way up to my window, slowly tapping it: let me in; it said. I reverted my eyes to my lonesome ashtray. It pitied me as i lost something, maybe. And it didn’t have anything to lose in the first place. I emptied down my thoughts, screams and tears those i poured into it last night, into the sink. Let the water run and bade them goodbye.


    // 35 mm burnt //

    He didn’t kiss on my forehead when he left. I wondered whether his lips rested on other cheeks. I started refilling my ashtray. This time, with insecurities and anger. I looked at the mirror. At the reflection of my cheeks. There were lines. My lips seemed thinner, less alluring. Black clouds underneath my eyes but it doesn’t rain. I read in Stephen Chbosky’s word that we accept the love we think we deserve. Am i not deserved by now? Am i not wanted anymore? I almost whispered underneath my breaths. I was scared in ending up some pound of flesh with a hole where his beast comes occasionally for food and leaves satisfied. Some layers of skin and cells just to pass some inheritance through DNA, i was afraid.


    // 50 mm burnt //

    But the beard man in office, i like the way he looks at me. He makes me feel wanted. He has been married for long. Now that he looks at me in a certain way, i wonder whether he also jumps into the climax at night as mine. I wonder how his better half feels after they finish. But then i am selfish too. Last week his hand rested on my back, cheering me up for the meeting with a client. His hand rested longer. He stroked me until he found my bra line. I did neither turn nor stopped him. His hand went down to my butt, squeezing the desire out if me. He held me up and made me sit on the desk. His hands went up to all the way between my legs. He was good with his hands. Our lips and tongue intertwined. My cherry red lip stick on his lips, like spilled wine. There was a gentle bite on my left neck. I felt like old days when i was falling in love with every touch of the person i loved, i married.

    He had come home a few minutes later i did.


    // 60 mm burnt //

    He is tired today so sleep has embraced him before it made love to my eyes. Now he is on his side and i, on my back. Staring at ceiling. The fan moves. It is old. Dust layers on it. I, wondering whether there are invisible dust layers on us which we cannot see but others can. A couple of minutes later tears trickled down through my cheeks . Not because dust layers has made love to them but the memories. Blue, grey, red; each of them.

    Maybe i need to look beautiful, again. My bracelet is amiss somewhere in between rolled up sleeves and black blazer. My smoky eyes are old under specs. My lips are less alluring on the grave of ashes and cigarettes. Lines have made their adobe on my face. So i picked up a new shade of foundation, mascara. I drew my lip lines like the first line on a fresh canvas. I got fit in his favourite dress after hauling myself over the coals for months in gym. And for finishing touch i put hope and dreams into my eyes. They shine and so do i.

    In those months we made love to each other several times however he kissed me less. I slept in his arms, less. He stroked my hair less after we finished. He kissed on my forehead less. He was into me but less. But tonight i am the person he fell in love with. I am the beauty here. I am the desire here.


    // 80 mm burnt //

    He pulled me towards him, his eyes on me whatsoever. But his lips didn’t rest on mine for long. Very soon they made their way down. And down. And so on. It rained heavily inside the room whipping out the mascara, oozing out the dreams and hope i put into. I no longer shined. I no longer smiled. It was like a whirlwind, a massacre in an ocean only up to my waist. And i could no longer drown into something i used to know as love.


    // ashes ~ grey //

    When Love breaks your heart you need something to lean onto. So i went to the shipwreck i came from. The name embedded on my breaths, i set it free with smoke and kept the souvenir in the ashtray. I burnt the love in between my lips and let the death count how much i lived.


    - jasmine

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    Cigarette and After Sex II
    ~the grey


    I burnt the love in between my lips
    and let the death count how much i lived.

    -jasmine

    ©iamjass

  • iamjass 26w

    (Have feast for your eyes, there is an extended part, soon)

    --------------------------------------

    Cigarette and After Sex // The Blue //



    ~ Outset ~

    A perfect dress, exposing the mole on my left thigh, perfectly. Perfect sounding stiletto. Vermilion lips, smoky eyes and vague looks. A perfect bow of his. Huddles of ragtags. A dancing floor. Bass on high. His hand on my thigh, left one, cuddling the mole, trying to have a way up to the door between my legs. The song went crazy with the upper shots of vodka. Thanks to the booze, I don't remember how many times he squeezed my hips in name of flames of chemistry. Savor of alcohol, less the aroma of souls, I miss the silence we sang on our first dance.



    ~ 00:00 ~

    We were good people. We reached home soon. I forgot to see the stars. The demon on the face of my beloved shut the window, made the curtains fall. It was for a show to be started. A show that starts behind my favourite lilac curtains. They saw us.
    Dear Reader, they saw us. They, my curtains.
    How we altered. How once his lips first used to find abode on my forehead but now first it goes below my belly, around my waist, between my legs.



    ~ 00:30 ~

    It was quick. A sharp movement. Yes, I would call it "movement" . From unzipping my dress from on my back to loosening my pantyhose, I don't remember when he called me beautiful. There is an ablaze flame inside me, that craves to hear how jaw-dropping my curves are from his wild voice. The beast inside me, it's weak perhaps, but it is there and it finds home in those wild words. But my crooked smile was faded enough, doubting myself a deadbeat.
    I stared at the painting that we both painted for the first time after leaving the rusty town and moving onto here, while the feast of my lover was going on with his sweet tooth, behind me. I remembered how passionately we painted the canvas. He held the brushes and strokes fell on me more, than on the canvas. His first bite on my belly and my first goosebumps. It's been a while since I felt alike. It seemed a tenth of second and he was done. He was done with his job of pain and pleasure. The waves of salacity were high but I lived, away from kisses, in pulls and pushes.



    ~ 1:00 ~

    He was done. He turned around. I did too. Our backs gazed at each other, cuddled, mourned on past days, missed the jiffies which were meant to be and then his back too felt asleep. Mine was awake.
    The flowers on the round table, they slept. The celling fan was tired of counting my sighs. My cellphone was dead. The bedsheet wanted me to sleep. The curtains sang. But I wanted them to dance with the whiff outside.



    ~ 2:00 ~

    He was on his back. I was on my side. And I remember the day when we both fell asleep on the floor of terrace, barefoot, without blanket, last year. Slowly his shoulder headed towards me, an inch. And my head stepped along another inch. And we stayed there in that moment. He was on his back and I was on my side. We slept under the tiara of stars that the sky held on that day. In my memory, we always sleep like that.



    ~ 2:30 ~

    There be a gap of inches betwixt us, on the bed. There was a number of crumples. But honey, it felt like we were deserted, under the same rain. We were closer so I smiled yet we were lightyears afar so another smile trickled down through my left cheek.
    When I was done
    with my nostalgia-affected-mocking, I felt a pain underneath my flesh. For a moment, honey, you seemed a stranger and our home appeared as a motel.



    ~ 3:00 ~

    Apart from my favourite curtains and the four walls of our bedroom, there was another envelope where I chained my blue. The tiles of my bathroom, they are blue, tessellated with the figures of cheery. The tiles know me, my wails, my scars. They sniffed the smell of my blood. They know how I wept and finally made peace with each fiendish mark. They know how the water heals some times and deserves to be called as Life.
    As soon as I stepped into icey marble floor the tiles asked me how I was. I smiled. They got me. They were silent. I too was.


    ~ 3:45 ~

    I was too cold. Both outside and inside. I decided to be numb. I opened the window. My favourite curtains needed to breathe. I needed to breathe.
    I saw the empty Adirondack swing which does forth with our dusk and dawn. I remember how our hot coffee mugs felt less warm than the warmth of our love, our giggles and surprisingly sensual kisses. A giggle dropped down on the floor, uplifting the weight of my eyebags.
    The gazes where we were just about to kiss each other, they mourn on the swing. I hear them. A little bit more. Aloud. Everyday.



    ~ 4:00 ~

    Hey, whoever is listening to me, do know one thing that I love my balcony, specially the morose couch as there I first sucked on cigarette.
    "Yes! Cigarette! Where are you love?", I mumbled.
    And I found the person who knows me the best which was a tint of silence and a burning metaphor.
    I remember John Green, describing the cigarette as a metaphor but I find it as the observer of my own metamorphosis.

    What was I waiting for? Nothing at all.

    I calcined the cigarette in between my lips and let the air remember that how much I was being loved. The screams are too stereotyped so I turn them into smoke and the pain into ashes. Now here I am talking about ashes so you perhaps are thinking about phoenix. Yes, from the ashes of pain and ignorance, my phoenix of facade arises.



    ~ 5:00 ~

    I need to go to bed and breathe like a sound asleep baby before my darling wakes up. I always want him to be proud of his beast of previous night.



    ~ 8:00 ~

    He woke up but he didn't kiss on my forehead.




    -jasmine

    ____________________________

    Extended part. Soon.
    PS. Not a series.
    PPS. This is an old post. I needed to repost it 'cause I need to post the second one successively. Happy Reading.

    Read More

    Cigarette and After Sex
    // The Blue //


    Some take shower, she takes too
    but she is a smoker
    so she burns a part of her pain and
    let the Death count how much she lived.



    -jasmine
    ©iamjass

  • iamjass 26w

    .
    ©iamjass

  • iamjass 26w

    Ranting. ��

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    Some summer sunsets bring me winter



    -jasmine

    ©iamjass

  • iamjass 27w

    Hello! I hope you remember me.
    I had to start anyway. So with this. It might not make sense.
    Will come up with something better.
    And I'm really sorry for being away so long. I really am sorry.

    Love
    Jasmine #love #poetry #life #thoughts

    Read More

    Amsterdam and The First Book

    And sometimes you don’t even need three words to change your canvas. You might be meticulous in picking the right shade or the right pointed brush but sometimes just one word can bring you millions of shades, can carry you home, can put you into bed, help you sleep. And can cause a chain reaction of thoughts and memories.

    For me it was Amsterdam !

    The hustle and bustle of daily life casts a spell on me and forces me to act like just as it wants. So i happened to be in a metro that morning when i heard this. Two love birds sitting across me happened to discuss their holiday, giggling and it was all warm. Although i could see my breaths dancing in the air, all white and then suddenly disappearing like a perfect mystery.

    Amsterdam reminds me of Hazel and Gus. And of hope. A song and some old pages of my rusty journal where i tried to capture love, one day. It reminds me of my first book that i read, felt, cried with, memorised and slept well after finishing. My skin flipping through the crispy pages, shaping the idea of love. My eyes feasting on the words like a woman does with the face of her beloved, perhaps when he sleeps like a baby or makes her pancake or does her laundry or kisses on her forehead. I was a bystander watching Gus and Hazel making love, being co-dependent and strong enough at the same time. They taught me that love is something where even the tears also smile.

    Amsterdam threw me into my own memory lane. My first espresso of that morning seemed a bit less burnt. I could feel the warmth of my dried checks and i was dying to bury them deep into my worn out muffler. My muffler smelt of detergent and my mum and of love.

    To me, Love has always been like that classmate who shines brighter, sits on the first row, neatly dressed and wears the prettiest smile. And i, a back bencher, secret admirer but can never set the pace. Love has been those mornings, shipwrecked, snowy, after making out and waking up without your beloved by your side. To me, Love has been Hangovers, slammed doors and the faces of footpath dwellers without a blanket in a winter evening.

    So i tried to be sane and make love to myself. The kind of love where you watch a sunset yet smile for the next sunrise. I painted my lips, my nails. I took care of my stomach and told my heart to wake up.

    But Amsterdam stole the most important card in my house of cards. It reminded me of my first book that i had ever read. There are chambers in your brains i assume that you cannot not bump into.

    There we went. The house of cards caved in. They fell like soil of a grave where i had buried the blue me, the blue us, the blue you and every other blue, grey and mundane things. I never needed alcohol to get high. Words, written or spoken or even unspoken were enough for the long run. I disdained that Me somehow. But that was who i really am who loves herself a little less but every other broken things a bit more where ironically she loves herself back. She makes love on paper. Her house is blue, walls of memories, ceiling of melancholy and cracks of love. And it even rains inside her house.

    And it is all okay as long as she gets to write.

    She, a lone wolf, sings at night making wishes to stars. Smiling with dancing dandelions, she is a tear drop smells like wine.

    Someday i would go to Amsterdam. Alone perhaps. And i would write to it and my first book that i read. Maybe a thankyou note as Amsterdam and my first book, together, held my hand and saved me from my own obnoxious abyss.

     

    -jasmine

    ©iamjass

  • iamjass 38w

    To my Dear Diary ��
    (and no one else)

    PS. Skip it. It's hell long!

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    When a Blue Heart breaks

    There wasn’t much to say, much to write about.
    Or perhaps i could not write so.

     

    But let’s face it today.

     

    I thought i grew stronger after when i fell for the first time. I got my knees slashed, my elbow hurt, twigs in my hair. I was a personified mess (well, you can go on and take out another meaning of aforesaid). I took time. Rolled my sleeves up, tie my hair in a ponytail, listened to all the bold songs, scanned every possible human, ate a lot of peanut butter and slept. Yes, sleeping is the most important. Then i felt it was the time. To face the pebbles on my way. To walk on. To dance on the edges. To shout from a cliff. And so there i went.

    I was getting used to summer. Music of guitar. Twigs and butterflies. Sweat and giggles. Hoard of people. I started using umbrella instead of running in rain. It was fun, living what other call, Life.
    And trust me when i say it.

     

    But it can’t be perfect and pure.
    So the imperfect and impure part was : i slipped. I fell. Again.

     

    It wasn’t much of a difference. The same room. Same walls. The same paint which i started to adore. The same playlist. The same coffee, same blog, the same laptop and the same words. All those years of “living” seemed a detour that led me here, a town where i live all by myself. Here people don’t smile at each other. Don’t make eye contact. They just carry baggage and become high on memories. Words abandoned this place (for your information).

    There is a person who visits this town almost daily. I like his suits actually. Someday it’s grey, someday black, crimson and i wonder whether he has a green suit. He is famous. And everybody in this town pretty much knows him, including me. We met when i fell last time. He was actually kind to me. He told me secrets that nobody did and promised to leave me if i grow stronger. But here we are meeting again. Exchanging glances. He pities me and i fantasise him being in love with me, like a drunkard does at bar.

    This time he hit where it hurts. On my words. He was the one who presented me words last time. He told me those were medicines. I believed in him. Because my knees healed, my elbows didn't hurt further. With the passage of time i got addicted to that and came to know that medicines are basically drugs.
    I pissed him off by falling. So he took what he gave, this time. It hurts to see my present going away. He did pat my head and fed me meds. Perhaps he was in love and didn’t want to see me again. But there we were, sitting in silence, stealing glances.

    Or perhaps i lost the meds when i fell as i kept them under my sleeves. It was harder to survive without my drugs. I waited. I was taught to have patience and wait for the things i love. A winter passed by. Leaves fell. New leaves came. Then it also rained sometimes but, but my words didn’t come. It was a new experience staring at far away to wait for something or somebody until your site blurs out.

     

    With the words, he also took something human out of me. A part that used to sleep well, smile like there is no tomorrow and cry like a newborn. And trust me if i say the remnants are like a river the doesn’t flow, an ocean that doesn’t wait for its river, vapour that don’t fall, a sky that doesn’t cry, a tress that doesn’t talk with wind, a blossom that doesn’t giggle with morning breeze, a cloudy dawn and a starless sky. 

     I asked him for my words but he was silent but i got my answers. His eyes were different this time. He was different. He seemed less blue more like a mundane. He seemed like a wing of heartbroken butterfly with millions of morose shades.

    I smiled at him. He whispered me heal and so i smiled more.

    As when a blue heart breaks it isn’t pain, my dear, it’s emptiness.

     

    -jasmine

    ©iamjass