Falser than the vows made in wine.

Grid View
List View
  • thegreymetaphor 6w

    The marks on your wrists,
    although waving quite
    visibly in the air as you
    took orders to brew
    various kinds of coffee,
    were as oblivious
    as the pain that walks
    on streets in the form of
    the most beautiful smiles.
    And yet, here I am,
    writing once again,
    about stories that lay concealed
    beneath layers of
    awkward silences,
    make-believe happiness
    and sometimes,
    even aggressive defiance,
    like the one your eyes
    had reflected,
    the moment they had caught
    mine fixated on your forearm.

    And today morning,
    while waiting in the queue,
    I saw you eyeing me
    with a smirk upon your lips.
    My knotted eyebrows
    soon straightened back
    as my gaze finally
    came to rest upon your skin.
    The marks were gone.
    Deleted forever or
    veiled, once again, I can't
    quite say. Replaced by
    a dragon tattoo,
    that looked both,
    formidable and fierce.
    And I'll give you that,
    the tattoo looked much
    better suited on your wrist
    than those objectionable stains.
    After all, the weaknesses,
    in this so called big bad world
    are supposed to find a place
    only within a poetry.

    But as I lie here now,
    at the silent hour of midnight
    staring above at the ceiling,
    I can't help but wonder.
    Wonder what is it that you fear?
    Being judged for the way
    you deal with pain
    or the pain getting drenched in
    pitiful rains.
    I wonder what is worse?
    The slits that slowly
    drain your life
    or the life that makes you
    cut yourself every night.
    And I wonder why you chose
    to veil it once again?
    To save yourself
    a yet another sad song,
    or cause somehow,
    you knew I'd write about you
    and 'scars' wasn't the note
    you wanted your poetry to end on.




    Read More

    Forbidden scars

    Tell me,
    if one day I let you see my scars
    and there isn't any light peering through.
    Will you still write about me
    as beautifully as you do?


  • thegreymetaphor 8w

    A lifetime down the line
    you and I will meet,
    at the ice cream shop
    round the corner,
    at the end of this busy street.
    I'll scrunch my nose
    at your black currant
    and at my vanilla,
    you'll cock an eyebrow.
    With amused eyes you'll say,
    "Choco chips don't hurt, you know."
    I'll tell you that I hate chocolates
    for they're too sugary for my taste,
    like pretty smiles and men's lies
    and vows made in wine and haste.
    You'll call me a corny cliché
    like those wishes
    made upon a dying star,
    I'll tell you, maybe it's a good thing then,
    they can be admired only from afar.

    A lifetime down the line,
    we'll watch a sunset together.
    Distances and hours apart,
    yet living in it, a forever.
    With wrinkles wrapped in greys,
    you will take a stroll
    down the street,
    And at an ice cream parlor
    round the corner,
    A corny cliché you'll greet.
    Faded and quite hazy,
    yet living on in your memory.
    And you'll smile at how it lingered
    without reminders and galleries.
    With a distant look in your eyes,
    You'll order vanillas, two.
    And on being asked
    if you'd like some choco chips,
    With a smile on your face you'll say, "no".


    Nothing seems to be going according to me these days. :/

    This turned cheesy, btw. -_-

    Read More

    A lifetime down the line.

    I don't gamble but if I did, I would bet on us.

    -The Lumineers (Dead sea)

  • thegreymetaphor 9w

    His very adamant sweet tooth
    would always end up
    binging on cheesecake
    on every date we had,
    and then make him stay up
    all night due to sugar rush.
    On those nights, he would call me,
    mostly around 2:00 am,
    shamelessly tell me
    that he misses me already,
    and then spend the rest of the night
    talking about avengers.

    He had this very strange habit
    where he would buy synthetic roses,
    spray them with his cologne
    and gift them to me
    saying that then I would
    have his scent with me
    even after he's gone.
    And before I'd have the chance
    to frown at the sheer
    insensitivity of the gift
    or tell him that I hate roses,
    he would pull me closer to him
    and shut me up with a fragrant kiss.

    He was always drawn to the ocean.
    Said he related to the waves.
    And if I ever asked me how,
    he would offer me a
    side lobed smile and say,
    "We're both fated to perish."
    The beach made him write
    poetries, but everytime I'd ask him
    to recite me one, he would
    simply shrug saying poetries
    are nothing but exaggerated lies.
    And poets, the most beautiful liars.

    He was true to his words though.
    For one night, he walked away.
    Like all good things do.
    Like a gust of wind,
    that brushes past you
    leaving behind nothing but a
    feeling. Often, a cold one.
    He left with no goodbyes
    for he always hated them.
    No letters for me to read over
    a cup of hot chocolate.
    No explanations, no reasons
    and no T-shirts to cuddle me to sleep.

    All he left behind
    were a few songs in his voice
    that still comfort me
    amidst the afternoon mayhem
    and a few plastic roses
    that smell like him,
    especially at a lonely 2:00 am.



    Lengthy and bland. ._.

    Read More

    2:00 am.

    And you thought the 2:00 ams
    will make you lonely.

    Didn't you know?

    If anything,
    It'll be the darkness
    of the sullen midnight
    that you will confide in, the most.
    It'll be the silence of this slandered hour
    that will refuse to abandon you
    when everything else will.


    ~Parchaaiyaan reh jaati, reh jaati nishaani hai.
    Zindagi aur kuch bhi nahi, teri meri kahaani hai.~

  • thegreymetaphor 10w

    And the thing is,

    sometimes you don't realise
    how much you've hurt someone,
    not cause you're incapable
    of unclouded judgements
    or too self righteous
    to accept a fault,
    but solely because
    the heart on the receiving end
    cares a little too much
    to make you detest yourself.

    Flipping the pages of their diary,
    you don't find poetry
    weaved out of the pain
    you inflicted,
    for they refuse to
    the part of you
    that had ended up
    agonising them,
    because somehow,
    they never learnt to write about you
    in a way that wasn't beautiful.

    Yes. Sometimes,
    you remain shielded
    from the merciless claws
    of guilt and regret,
    simply because your victim
    happens to be much better lover
    than you will ever be.



    Just a passing thought. Trying to be a little regular I guess. :/

    Read More


    Loving can hurt,
    loving can hurt sometimes.
    But it's the only thing that I know

    -Ed Sheeran (Photograph)

  • thegreymetaphor 11w

    You can still see where the water was
    In a line at the top of the chimney bricks
    Sometimes, something so broken can never be fixed.

    -Aaron Wright (Build it better) ��

    Because some people don't get to live. No matter how much they want to.
    And the tragedy is, they don't get to die either. No matter how much they want to.

    Read More

    Stuck(?) in the mean.

    You smile a lot.
    And laugh even more.
    You don't spend the lunch alone
    and neither do you smoke your sighs away.
    You believe you quit falling into the category of sad people long back and you wonder if that makes you a lousy poet.

    You're still very much in love with the stars. With food and TV too. They aren't distractions. And hopefully, this is not a denial either. You no longer regret the weekends spent alone staring at the ceiling or the light colored walls. You don't toss and turn at 3:00 ams anymore. You even crack jokes. Bad ones, although.
    You miss no one and somehow, knowing that you aren't being missed either, has been peaceful.

    Life is okay. Maybe, even good.

    You've managed to become the light you used to search for in people and learnt not to focus on the voids between the stars. You've learnt to find color even in the white walls. And you've accepted that at times, pendulums get stuck in the mean.

    But every night, when you hit the pillow, you wonder if you'll go to sleep just for the heck of sleeping once, rather than avoiding the stillness. You wonder if you're in fact stuck, pinned down by heavy shackles or its just one of the side effects of monotony.

    You wonder if you fixed the pieces back or simply soundproofed the walls. You wonder if you steered far away from the cliff or you survived the fall.

    They say, "Sadness is giving up on dreams you once cherished." And you wonder if you're sad enough because giving up doesn't hurt anymore. Neither do those dreams that breathed their last at the hands of reality.

    And before you can realize just how sad, wondering if you're sad enough, actually is, you fall asleep.

    Before your insides can judder at the contrast of what is and what could have been, sleep shows mercy and lulls you in.

    And you're glad it does.

    Because you've learnt to synonymize happy with okay. So, before the silence surrounding you can scream just how not-okay this is, you prefer to zone it out.

    Because, life has to be okay.

    And sometimes, this is as okay as it can get.


  • thegreymetaphor 13w

    I've been a liar, been a thief
    Been a lover, been a cheat.

    -Ed Sheeran & Marshall Mathers (River) ��

    Like the silences speak volumes
    when you care enough to listen.
    Like the blank pages contain stories
    of ends that had no beginning.
    Like the spaces between the stars
    hide cosmic secrets within.
    The gaps between these pretty words
    conceal a zillion ugly sins.


    Read More


    Over different desolate roofs,
    we lay under the same sky.
    While you fell in love with the stars,
    I got lost among the voids.


  • thegreymetaphor 14w

    And yet, completing one feels good. :/

    Read More


    You're an assemblage
    of all the unended poetries I'm scared to finish,
    cause I fear I might let go
    of the people inhabiting them.


  • thegreymetaphor 14w

    I remember nothing about the day I met you. Except you. Your striking blue eyes scrutinizing me from behind the thick rimmed glasses as your lips contorted, sputtering out the most distasteful tone that had ever graced my ears. "Do you know you can be nice and still be real?" You had said, scowling. I remember the most fascinating eye roll I had ever received over a blank reply. Your pastel shaded hands waving in air as you huffed in exasperation before dragging your lean and lanky physique clad in a teal blue button down shirt, out of my sight. I remember it all too vividly. You wore my favorite color that day, after all.

    And I remember everything about the day you left. Except you. The sunny blue sky that made it difficult for me to open my eyes. The dim lit room occupied by beeping monitors on one side and blue curtains on the other. The suffocating scent of chemicals that was no longer mixed with yours, the white walls, the white bedsheet, the pale fingers. But, how could those trembling fingers clutching onto mine be yours? Your skin was a pastel shade of dawn, not flaking white. That cracking voice, asking me to promise that when the time comes, I would let you go, could not be yours. Your voice was never that lifeless. Your eyes were anything but a blue slowly fading into oblivion.

    I wish my last memory of you was a little more colorful than white and blue. I wish it had a little more of you rather than your fragile hands and gradually ceasing breaths. A little more than the emptiness that had clogged my brain. Or the numbness that kept getting heavier with every tick of the clock. I still remember the helplessness that had coursed through me as I was dragged to another room. A room with the same blue curtains and white walls, but without you. I remember the confusion that made me wonder why was it all so quiet when I could see people screaming. I never knew chaos could come veiled as dead silence, at times.

    I remember passing out to a blurry whiteness that kept growing. That kept engulfing any color that dared to reside in it's way. And I remember I wanted nothing more than the curtains to stop being blue.



    A lengthy mess.
    I blame the song.

    Read More

    Blue curtains

    I remember nothing about the day I met you. Except you.
    And I remember everything about the day you left. Except you.


    When you said your last goodbye
    I died a little bit inside.

    -Kodaline (All I want)

  • thegreymetaphor 15w

    Something random. And out of the blue.
    And somewhat inspired by a very old memory.

    Read More


  • thegreymetaphor 15w

    Tonight, let's down a peg more
    and spill some secrets.
    Repeat the mistakes old
    and have no regrets.
    Let's revisit the childhood,
    turn smoke back to screams.
    Count the lifetimes it'll take
    to fulfill the discarded dreams.

    Let's dare a little more,
    break the decaying promises.
    Adorn a new canvas
    with some guiltless kisses.
    Let's scratch a few wounds
    and let them bleed.
    And carve a few more
    once they begin to heal.

    Tonight, let's laugh like a kid
    on a merry-go-round.
    And weep like rose petals
    falling to the ground.
    Let's indulge in old stories
    and weave some new.
    Come let's live a little in me
    and a little in you.

    Let's stay up till dawn,
    and for once, not be alright.
    Let's let the tears flow
    unabridged, without a fight.
    Let's find a zillion taints
    and love, despite.
    Let's allow each other have
    one less lonely night.

    Let's exchange the old scars
    for some fresh pain.
    Tonight, let's make a bargain
    and be human again.

    Tonight, let's be human again.



    The fact that it rhymes only adds to the cringe. :/

    Read More

    Tonight, let's be human again.

    And if we're victims of the night
    I won't be blinded by the light.

    -Juice Newton (Angel of the morning)

    ( Poetry in caption )