Because for the storms, it’s enough if the Rainbows mourn.
And the dew drops of dawn Are the tears of the night.-K.
I summon sleep with tears; and see the spilt ones, glisten bright,Slowly fading away with sunlight.-K
Choosing is simply trusting enough, to take responsibility for the consequences.
I once had a choice, but was too afraid to choose; afraid because, I wouldn’t have anyone else to blame. -K
If not your pillow I’ll be your star.-K
But to me, he was the bed time stories. The ones I read, loved, though never believed.-K
17 Feet Under
I remember becoming a writer.A cold winter it was.I had scars all over my soul, and my mind was wrecked.I fell into a hole I knew I couldn’t get out of.Darkness scared me, but much to my surprise so did light.When you are too broken, even your spine forget its purpose, and your body slumps.I felt slipping out of time.As if, I was an evolution glitch.Over days, I disappeared.Even to myself.Pain and angst became my feet.I’ll tell you what, if there is so much under your soles, you can only get so far.With no light in that hole, I invented a way to navigate.I spoke out loud.It should sound crazy, but when you talk out in an empty hole with the realisation there are no one to judge, you speak your truth.No need to censor; no sugar-coating, and no apologies for your strong words required.You just pour. Burst like a ripe balsam seed bag.And your words become your tribe; your grammar becomes, tradition.You don’t ask for a better than where you are, because you are home—even if it is a deep hole seventeen feet under ground, it feels home.Your foot prints join your talk, and your arms, rhyme now and then.Silence and mustiness are the only audience, but you won’t ask for better.I didn’t.But, a rope came in.On a full moon day, I heard a voice call out for me.I looked up.My tribe. My words. Stood there.With a rope in everyone’s hands, trying to pull me out.And, here I’m.So what? I fell in a pit and I lost my shit. Regrets are for people who give fucks.I am not people.I’m not you.I learnt the hard way that I have no hurt feelings in people not liking me.Honestly, if I were you, and you, me, even I wouldn’t like you.I remember becoming a writer, and it was the day when I lost myself, in a hole, underground.
Sky, you know, can do wonders to a soul.
I feellove is poured into your veinsand you give world a little part of itand then carry the restto make the less loved onesfeel home again. ©zenith_
The greatest agony a writer can endure is not to be loved for his work when he breathes. And, how atrocious it is of our world to put almost all beautiful souls that writes through such painful time?- Nandha Kriskar
I'm made of some wordsOnly poets could understand .And I'm made of some wordsEven poets can't understand.©__101__
I’m a small person.Every time I read something that connects more than on a reader level, I immediately go from awe to self-loathing.I know.I’m a small person.A child-like simpleton in an illusional writer bubble.Anyone who writes beautifully becomes a person I run away from.I envy them. I love them, with zero percent doubts. Still, I envy them.I know.I’m a terrible soul.A cruel heart, a dark brain.A person of a little too much self-importance.Well, I’m not loved, so I have to focus all I have on me.I’m growing. Zooming out.I’ll become a beautiful bird.The one that doesn’t always fly alone.The kind that has a nest, that has other birds.I’ll like it, I’m assuming.Or, I will not, but I’ll have me always, anyway.So, it is not too bad, is it? To just love me, and envying all other beautiful people?Don’t say, it is.It was rhetorical.Or, it wasn’t, but don’t say it is.I am sure I won’t be hurt, but I’m an ass, and all it takes is a word from you to hate you completely.I know.I’m a sociopath.Arrogant prick.A cactus.Loner. A desert being.But, you have no fucking clue for how much I love the world I’m in, and how much I want the people I bump into to be all-smiles.You have no fucking clue.None.Stop doing it—the judging.You don’t gain a pound of flesh, and I’m not going to fucking lose anything just because you judge.If I were a little different, and so were you, we might even have become those writer pals who one day will sit under a giant ass tree, on a stone bench, musing, in silence, and writing.I know.I’m so not your usual writer, but once you let me get in, you will know a star can also not shine and still be called a star.- Nandha Kriskar
Every time he comes, I let my hair down and untie.I may be clothed or naked, but he always gawks at my hair.A sick lover, he is!Sometimes, he lets his fingers run through, sometimes, he lets his being run through.Never mind, you can’t feel him, unless you have someone like him—who can see you on your ugliest day and still whisper something lovely by your ears.He is sneaky, definitely.You never can tell whether he is in the room or not.Sometime he does rush in, opening the doors and the windows wide open, other times, he is as quiet as a mouse.You have to feel him with your body, to know his presence.He never asks to drop my clothes. He’ll play on me. I’ll drop them myself.Ah, he makes me wet already!He is too good at getting done what he wants.Such a go-getter!We play hide and seek, and I always win at it.I can’t believe he loses to me, because he is stronger than fire, and I mean it literally!I’ll hide, and there is not a time when he tried to find me without rustling.We don’t laugh much, though.I don’t know, but when he laughs, he sounds musically.Well, initially I adored it, but the more I grew into him, the less I made him laugh.His laugh, spooks me.I, often, wait for him to come by my door, but he is like time—he’ll come, when he has to.You can’t call him. No messages can be sent. You can’t let him know you’re wanting him.Because, he travels all around, and there is no denying to “You can’t make him stop.”So, I think he may come today; I’ll be prepared.Because, it is confusing, honestly.Sometimes, it’s him, but mostly, it’s just wind.I’m baffled, who am I in love with?- Nandha Kriskar
And God diedThere was no moreAny entity beforeAbove or beyond usJust usLonely helplessSpirits lost uponThe web of timeAnd what killed himDesolved him to nothingWas a world view thatBlocked him AwayHid him underScientific termsReduced it to an atomAnd said it was no more.Alisdaire O'Caoimph
At threshold of dawnin the arms of ray and bluestars smiled and melted
The mountain is heavywith darkness, until footprintsecho light into it and theyconquer the day together.~j.m.tamis
The moon has had yearsof perfecting her shade toprotect those in the darkness.~j.m.tamis