i learned the process of making wine one needs to be prudent enough -
you start with harvesting first, judicious to pick up the grapes sweet, flavoured and acidic just like you are picked - beautiful, selfish, brave you sort them, and sometimes bad ones just hang around
then comes the crushing to let the juice get additional tannins, flavour and color to let out all the good and bad like heartbreaks and incomparable loyalty like scars and the tinted band-aids
now, allow it to ferment by adding wild yeast until sugar turns into alcohol moonshine, firewater, they call it like a spark igniting a fortunate volcano the chaos reverberating as chosen silence
we're almost there it's time for clarification - clean removal of tannins, proteins and dead yeast clean removal of toxicity, destruction, hatred take your sore time as you do it
and now, all we have to do is aging and bottling - aging in oak barrels, stainless steel tanks or bottles that makes the wine reach its optimal flavour the flavour of experiences, stories, mysteries grave dilemmas and raw indecisiveness
and when you're done you bottle it up through years making it better turning underlying water into an elixir turning your mess into an abstract art
you bottle it all up and know as it gets older, it becomes better as you get older, you become finer
You stand there with your eyes on me Your hands in the depths of your pocket Just like my eyes in yours And I see a calm ocean roaring With passion and zest Overflowing with the waves of romance.
You were not my 'type', for sure For it included guys sleeping around Promising I was "the one" Heating up the sheets between us Warming up my body with only the touching Touching and thrusting, yes, But never warmed my heart with words With all the naked truths.
Your arms scoop my careless self My recently shampooed hair lying recklessly On your half bare shoulder Barely exposed by your favourite white jersey As you tell me your little funny stories Of you hurting your butt while you tried To fit in your sister’s jeans as a part Of your infamous truth-and-dare game And the time when you almost got suspended from school Because you followed your crush to the girl’s washroom. Too much for women safety, I make a subtle sneer.
You don’t post pictures on social media Because you think it’s the infiltration of your own vibe Feeling satisfied in other’s validation. Instead of thinking about captions and filters You make me mix tapes Of Bon Jovi and Bryan Adams And ask me to listen to them with you besides me Imagining us in a red Buick Skylark on a roadside Under the streaming moonlight As you call me your Black Magic Woman.
We sing Hotel California together “Such a lovely place Such a lovely face” As you kiss the top of my forehead Tucking my strand of messy hair behind my ear. As we plan our movie date You complain that you cannot decide If you’d be able to watch the movie Because you’d fall deep admiring Madhubala’s elegance Because you claim her to be the most beautiful woman, Yes, more than I am for you, you tell me In all innocent honesty.
You’re an old soul beautifully fitted In this meaningless world Where pretentious is THE word Because we all have grown to be a bit self-centred, Uncaring and just borderline ignorant, Justifying the 'self-care'. You, honey, are just a misplaced puzzle piece Wandering in the world of sins You don't deserve it, Sweeping me off my feet Sharing all your virtues In those and all moments, I promise I'd trade anything for you.
The shine Of the stars In your eyes Make me An insomniac And the smooth Cream of your skin Strips me Of my thorns Fills me with Million sensations Races my heart And tingles My infinity nerves. Baby, oh baby, You're my night, My dreams And my nightmares, You're the darkness I want to live in You are why I never Believe in sleep.
Today, I looked up on the internet How to be less practical While playing Bed of Roses by Bon Jovi "About all the things that I long to believe About love and the truth and What you mean to me And the truth is, baby you're all that I need"
And I wondered, if I'd ever say Words like that aloud If my tongue would roll with ease Or if it would flutter like a bird's wings Trying to escape it's confinement. Because emotions and its semantics Had never been my ally
Leading me to punch and doubt If I really can't feel feelings Leading others to taunt and doubt If I had a heart at all Or maybe a black one at that Or maybe made of stone.
"Don't cry now, be strong." "Don't cry now, be strong."
Because we all have needed Strong people by our sides. And the feeling of being needed Is like a kiss on the forbidden lips Leaving you wanting more.
Well, Psychology Today asked me back "Do you know how to be practical?" Which was like asking Jimi Hendrix If he knew how to string guitar chords.
I'd been there, Crying out loud, Asking someone to need me Please, keep me with you Please, love me like I do.
And when no faces turned And when no arms opened I'd known I was on my own.
Shards of glass crawl on my skin When I can't show my love When you think I'd never understand Because I'd never feel and never know What it's like to be in love.
But that's how this goes Straight face with a bitchy smirk Trophying along the Hidden box of emotions.
Because my bed of roses Has always been the bed of nails And that's how I don't care.
And I'll be your last sunset someday When the flawlessly blended colours Won't stupefy you anymore When the approaching dusk Will seem to suffocate your lungs When you will want to run But the skin of your sole will burn And the soul of yours will burn
You'll try to cry But the fluid in your eyes will solidify And you won't be able to rub it off Because the hurt from their eyes didn't go easy Like a drop of water flicked away But like a tiny thorn picked off Seeming like the heart is grabbed out.
So, learn to stab yourself without dying Because, I've been your Guinea pig Way too many times, tried and tested, Hurt, bleeding and alive Dead, drained but breathing And learn to sleep in guilt and screams Because I'll be your last good night And your first worst nightmare.
There's a place I imagine is white in colour In all corners And in all spaces White and clean Relaxing and singing peace. White lights shine bright In rows like a wave unfaltering. I look into your eyes And I see a resemblance Just like the two sides of a body Just like night and the darkness And smooth kisses and love. You stand there With your perfect lips lined And blinking slow eyelids Like you can calm any storm down Like you can change the fire into ice And turn a thorn into a cotton ball. You're all things good You're all things I'd love You're silence and you're truth The destination I'd want to run to. I'm a human with sins And you, a heaven I wish.
In a garden, you've been hanging Sand around, it's running away You said we'd hold hands and play But now I look around And there you stand With your face lit up And your castle built up For you, have I disappeared?
Now I learn to climb on my own Holding on the rocks Slipping away from me Falling away from me Hurting my fingers I see them bleed And I wonder if I'd give up If my breath is giving up
Swings pushed me down Like it was a restricted territory And I was sneaking in with my arms The branches blocked every way I walked to So I got down from the tree house Because i knew I didn't belong there And now I was aimless Where to wander and where to stay
Came back to see the rocks And I found my home At the top of it, my north star shone Wandered the world, But it stood right where I first gave up Now I know, my place is here Hundred times I would fall And other hundred times The rocks will tumble away But, I know Everytime I'll slide down, I'll climb back Baby, you got to remember You slide down, you climb back.
Distance is the most sorrowful word you learn when you dive into unrequited bonds. Because unrequited love, unrequited friendships they all seem great in the beginning but as go deeper and deeper they suck out the life from you, they kill you emotionally and socially. It all feels Rosey in the beginning but the reality is that it all looks good in fiction only. And fiction is a LIE but you live the truth. . Distance- the hardest lesson, the sorrowful word and the toughest action that you need to take before diving into the pool of emotions, before getting into the depths of people, before giving you away for someone who won't even give a piece of himself/herself for you. Sometimes, the best thing you can do for you is to distance yourself from everything and everyone who is/can be the cause of your pain. Going away from people who mean the most to you is not 'holding grudges with them', it is not 'never talking to them again', it is not 'never meeting again'. But it is a step to heal the wound that you are living with. . Distance doesn't lessen the bond, it broadens your vision to look at the bond. With me, it has always been this way, distance has always been a remedy to save the amount of love and respect that is left. Distancing yourself is hard but important to save the bond, to save love and to save friendship because when you stay there in the places where you don't receive what you give, you become problematic, you find out faults in everything, you worry about the things unnecessarily, you hurt yourself and then you turn into a toxic person, not necessarily for anyone else but for yourself. You turn toxic for yourself but you need to save yourself. . D-i-s-t-a-n-c-e because you gotta save something so pure. D-i-s-t-a-n-c-e because you gotta stop yourself from breaking. D-i-s-t-a-n-c-e because you gotta protect your peace. D-i-s-t-a-n-c-e because you gotta meet them again, happily.
Write me a poem, point dozens of Cupid’s arrows to my heart if you dare to awaken it. Tune into your inner Shakespeare, fantasize us as Bonnie and Clyde if you care to spend time in it.
Recreate the Titanic, recreate it with the ending of The Notebook If you can bear to believe in it. And if that doesn’t work, cast me to sleep like the Juliet you are and let me awake next to your lifeless flesh and dagger as I pierce my soul with it.
Let every single one of those fourteen lines bleed with emotion. Leave The Notebook next to my notebook and become the protagonist of my dreams. Think like the wind and attain the kind of power that’ll allow you to blow away on any given day.
Your presence keeps transforming our thoughts into beautiful poetic paintings, Basquiat and Picasso would’ve been proud.
Write me a poem, silence every impurity that does awaken my love. Summon the essence of my soul for the taking of your unforsaken hands and make Mona Lisa cry sacred tears of joy.
Create simplistic glimpses that only our superior beings can understand, only then can I unleash my undying emotion towards your uncontested universe.
Write me a poem, the kind that will make me realise that your heart isn’t filled with any doubt.
The day I realised that words could touch you, I wanted to become a poem. The kind of poem that Maya Angelou’s ink always dreamt about.
The taste of your smile still lingers on the edges of my lips. I see galaxies in your eyes, it must be in the way I love you like I do. I could’ve settled for less but I don’t want anyone else but you.
Write me a poem that speaks to the heart of my mind. Because I always hear your heartbeat when I think about you. Write me a poem that intertwines our inner intuitions.
A poem that makes you believe in shooting stars if you’re into wishing. And finally that captures the very essence of the unknown soul that’s unspoken of. Because it’s within your golden silence that I hear the loudest cry.
They say neither science nor history can ever tell us the first person to die, just as neither can tell us the first person to have lived but maybe poetry can.
The first person who died loved someone so much that he dug out words from the ground where they later buried his body. The first word he found was her name, the second word was "love", the third word was "stay" he spent nights rearranging all the words, next morning he taught his tongue to say "i love you. stay."
The girl didn't know what love meant or stay for that matter so she left, the only word the boy couldn't dig out was "goodbye", So he pulled out his tongue and hanged himself. when they dug the earth to bury him, they found the word "goodbye" which is to say, to bid you goodbye is to dig my own grave with the hands i write these poems with.
I write bad poems, mad poem people call them sad poems, they say "why don't you write glad poems?" My teacher says shakespeare brought lovers, lunatics and poets to the same pedestal so I tell people I am a shakespearean tragedy, a poet's borrowed grief, a lover's blood on the palms of your hands, a lunatic's madness sharing the same pedestal.
My heart is the pedestal I stand on, I'm my own tragic hero; the most heroic act I've ever done is to love. My prayer was like eliot's last words- his wife's name, I shouted your name to god's ears.
The girl in the slam poetry last week killed her god, she dumped his body in garbage dump. she said nobody attended god's funeral because nobody loved him but I went to god's funeral, I went to god's funeral like people go to war : to kill or to die I asked god to make you love me.
All this while i've been shouting your name to a dead god, you make me beg for your love to a dead god. I wanted you like god wanted one of the witches from hell in whose memory he wrote a poem.
This world is god's love confession; first ever poem where I stumbled upon you while jumping through the lines like a jack pollock's painting my teacher taught me about the other day. He's crazy, still a fucked up 18-year old heartbroken boy standing on the same pedestal his lover left her on.
He says crazy things, he says things like "love" when we read plays. "love" when we read novels "love" when we read poems "love" "love" "love".
In our class, we swallow love before love swallows us and return to shakespeare.. "Tis strange, my Theseus, that these lovers speak of. "A Midsummer Night's Dream she says "Lovers speak of strange, Strange things" Love has turned him mad, like this girl on my telegram who says she sees fishbowl when she looks at the sky goddamn her 'cause now I wish upon fish instead of stars but every shooting star is a dead fish you see, here also I've been wishing upon dead last time when you broke my heart i ate all the fish I wished upon.
I carry so much dead inside of my stomach that If you ever cut it open all my bad poems, mad poems, sad poems, why-don't-you-write-glad-poems will slide out and god's love confession will turn into a suicide letter in which he'll pull out his tongue and hang himself because he couldn't dig out the word goodbye.
Because before he could dig out the word goodbye, the witch he loved burned the hands he wrote this fucking poem with in which I met you so when my teacher asks "what is poetry?" I want to tell her poetry is bringing the dead back to life making it revolt, rebel, cutting my stomach open without being dead, because it's too easy for me to die. All I have to do is to bid you goodbye, but love, when you'll dig the earth to bury me, you'll always find the words "I love you" "stay" before "goodbye."
I still remember when my mother rushed upstairs and I was studying, I saw her crying and packing some clothes in a bag. She came to me and told me that Nani was dead and I fell apart.
And for the first time, I felt powerless and weak and useless. Her eyes all red and mine in a state not worthy to be described.
We wept for our losses and I could only imagine how weak she felt because if not for her mother, why is she gonna go to her home.
She had now nowhere to go. She was going straightaway for the funeral and I saw the mascara in her eyes spread as if it was the doom of her soul. And her life and her body and her eyes, And everything I loved of her.
I hugged her fiercely and perhaps that was the first time I hugged her ever cuz I don't remember anything now And she rushed downstairs.
After a few days she came. And when I was studying in the verandah, she'd too come and sit beside me and do her work. She would write god's prayers in a book of hers and after writing a few lines, she would look up and sigh.
She'd turn to me and tell "I heard that when my father lifted my mother's head and kept it on his shoulder, he leaned in closer to her and whispered in her ear Forgive Me For Everything" My eyes saw tears glistening on her cheeks and I saw her set like the sun, Magnificent and beautiful. . . . I said," I'm so sorry!". . . . And she said in a broken voice ," it feels as if someone took away the sky from me".
On the days when I fail to write a suicide letter, I write a poem.
Once a girl told me "your face only looks good when it 's not visible" and i scratched out her eyes with knife my mumma cuts veggies with. Next day she called me flirt and i traded her eyes for sex on the beach jello shot and wrote her a poem with words bigger than her brain.
The last girl i wrote a poem to rolled her joint on the book of sylvia's collected poems with purple color cover some other girl had gifted me the same day and said I-I-I love-love-love you-you-you like a broken record, I am a broken record.
I told her how sylvia died and she showed me how to empty a cigarette to fill weed. Loving her felt a lot like smoking, high. Forgetting her feels like placing the head in the oven with the gus turned on, because i can't get her out of my mind. Turning the gas on means writing a poem.
There was this girl I broke the heart of and she told me boys like me should die starving for love. So I pretended to love a girl who wanted to love me, while whispering french in my ears She'd talk about gaustave, monet, hugo and send me poems and say 'love me'.
I told her my head is still in the oven and I can't see her, the girl said it is okay and that I don't have to love her and I felt bad, because I don't know how to love girls who don't break hearts. I don't know how to love good girls because good girls make bad poems. You can't scratch out their eyes and trade them for a ticket to paris to spend nights in cheap hotel rooms with balcony view of Eiffel tower.
So, I broke her heart before she could break mine and wrote her a poem and cried with my head still in the oven.
Next day I texted a girl "ignore this text just texting cause lonely", so she ignored it. I wish I could roll my heart into a joint and smoke it up, but oh boy, boys like me are terrible at stuff like this so they roll their heart into a metaphor with sharp teeth and swallow the entire city and chew the people they are in love with.
Boys like me are hungry and I'm sorry if you ever, ever fall in love with me and I don't, because my head is still in the oven and my heart is in my mouth waiting to be swallowed the moment someone says the word 'love', because when somebody says 'love' all I hear is her-her-her name-name-name.
George Lymann states that "Suicide is a cowardly way of killing yourself", so I am always looking to fall in love. I fall in love and my legs refuse to carry me anymore. I am stuck in my home and she’s waiting for me in the cafeteria. I need to leave because I’ve hidden my secrets in her braid and I am afraid of the thought what if another man untangles it. I somehow reach the restaurant and say to her, “To see you and not fall in love isn’t a possibility. Your touch it seems is a love note from God that tells me everything is alright. You are the closest thing to peace.” She smiles awkwardly and leaves soon after. I always thought I was the reason behind her mesmerizing smile but the grief she had kept tucked in the corners of her mouth was alien to me. People quit when you love them more than they have ever loved themselves. I, who cried in love, now smile in pain. I am just realising that my heart is a place where traitors of love unite. The world celebrates the fireworks inside my belly and impregnates me with the fume of harsh memories that I never wanted to birth. My good memories have OCD so I keep splashing water upon them. I scrub them hard to clean the dirt. I end up fading them. Whenever I think of not giving up, of flying, the birds outside my home hold their stomachs and die out of laughter. In the school, I put forward my palms as soon as I see the teacher sneaking into her purse searching for the wooden scale. Where there is beating, there shall be me. On the way back home, I press my ears against the walls of my neighbor’s home and realize how popular I am. After all, I have always wished to be the red hot topic. I smile. At night, my father comes home drunk and falls hungrily upon the dining table. He asks me to behave like a man. So I serve him a bowl full of delicious respect for women in dinner. He refuses to eat. I look into my mother’s eyes soon after and find a reason to live. God wears red lipstick and a floral gown and thinks he is as beautiful as my sister. My therapist doubts his abilities every time lend a session with him. My depression will probably be the only one to show up at my funeral. A little late. A little drunk. Wildly shouting, "I told you to love me back."
Whenever I step into my garden, there's a voice from the nearby forest that says, "Please don't cut the trees." I came here just to pluck some flowers, I had thought. For boys like me, every day is the judgement day and every night god comes on a rescue mission to stretch our lives till the next morning.
I survive and go back to her. I tell her, "What could not be mine shall be yours. So take this body and rip it apart. I want you to have some fun."
The day I die, I know the sun will refuse to shine. Moon will cry. Music won't feel like music. The earth will tremble and people will fall into a mire full of suffering. The world will know of what it has lost. Whichever god is listening to me, and wherever you are. I want to say I am coming. I am coming to tell you of all the things that are wrong with your world. Please fix them if you can.
This is my eulogy poem so to all those reading it, please recite it out loud after I am gone because I know you'll write something like "Rest in peace", and I know I'll never be at peace.