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  • thewiltedflower 6w

    Loving like a poet

    My poems had been unaware about your existence until sometime ago. Not that the poet in me couldn't find similes akin to your beauty but because I always thought I could love you silently. From a distance.

    But you see, there's this thing about writers like me. We can't help ourselves from labelling every moment as that one peculiar "feeling". And so, we wear our (over)thinking hats and segregate the labels carefully, only to find that one label.

    That is exactly why our journals know us better than most of the people around us.

    So I don't blame my journal for inviting memories over a cup of poetry. You see, shameless writers like me have a thing for tying metaphors around everything and anything that we love.

    On nights when my trembling fingers leaf through the pages of my journal and your memories wake up from a deep slumber, I try not to write. Not that I can't but just because I choose not to.

    But then again, I'm a poet and writing about love just happens to be one of my favourite things. So there you go. My poems become souvenirs of your existence. And I? A lovesick poet.

    ©thewiltedflower

  • thewiltedflower 7w

    I knew exactly what Loneliness looked like even before I had learnt to spell it.
    If chaos and unrest, ever made love, "Loneliness" is what you'd get.

    For someone whose head has always been full of voices that are more like a broken tape-recorder stuck on a song called
    "M i s f i t" ;
    Loneliness came in unannounced, barring the visit of any other emotion except his lady love, Overthinking.

    For Loneliness the muse and the poem are always a string of would haves, could haves and should haves, with which he composes a rather cacophonous song; the notes of which are known only to him.

    But there are days when hopelessness
    w r e c k s
    every belief that you once nurtured. And on one such day, I
    s
    h
    a
    p
    e
    d
    the belief that Loneliness is a gigantic tree that my heart nurtured.

    I often wonder how the roots strengthened their grip on my heart.
    was it my "friends" who had gifted me those seeds?
    Or was I destined to carry this unwarranted ache called "loneliness"?

    I never had answers.

    But what I knew was that all the arable land in my heart was occupied by Loneliness. Needless to say, Self love could never rejuvenate and in the absence of love, Hope wilted.

    Shedding its bark like a sycamore tree, Loneliness, soon became strangely comforting. ("Solitude is what they call it, but I've developed a certain fondness for the word "lonely")

    And on nights when the shreds of Loneliness manage to pierce my skin like slivers of wood, I pen down a poem and name it after Emptiness.

    (You see, Loneliness has mastered the art of pointing fingers (like me) and blames it all on emptiness)

    ---Neha

    ___________________________________________________

    Incoherent as always! :")

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    An empty poem

  • thewiltedflower 9w

    Monotony

    The sky, today, is a little too pinkish and my mind, a little too lost to admire its beauty. The conflict between my mind and heart makes it difficult for my eyes to distinguish between the yellow and the tangerine that is slowly engulfing it.

    The wind chimes in my neighbour's house no more bask in the glory of my praises. Have they become less mellifluous? Or maybe my ears have grown resistant to their melody.

    These days, the alarm speaks more loudly and nonchalantly than the cuckoo's song and I wake up humming "I am late".
    These days, my steps are more synchronised to the hands of a clock than to the tunes of a song.

    I find myself constantly oscillating between melancholy and anxiety and in between a tick and a tock, I manage to steal a moment to ask why "ephemeral" has always been the prefix when it comes to happiness?

    Although, nights are the harbinger of serenity, I find emptiness seeping into the hollow of my bones. The zephyr moves past flowers of hope and uproots them. These days, it is the only emotion that seeps into my glacial heart and I've got used to it.

    And with each passing day, sunsets become a little less beautiful and songs a little less meaningful. Is it the grey that is slowly engulfing all the hues? Or is it my eyes that have learnt to overlook the myriad hues?

    Or perhaps, its the monotony that is slowly engulfing me.


    ©thewiltedflower

  • thewiltedflower 10w

    It's been 56 days, 28 minutes and 5 seconds since I first planned to write a letter to you. Call it veracity of the fate or whatever you feel like, I just couldn't bring myself to write.

    But today, when I woke up, there was an inexplicable urge to write. So here, I am with a broken pen and a stained paper trying to pen down anything and everything I can.

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    Incongruity

    My early recollections of you are a painting dipped in the finest shade of turquoise and lilac. But the only thought that strikes my mind when I hear your name is how your mind was always brimming with metaphors.

    But when you narrated them to me, it felt like a barefoot walk on your field of metaphors. And amongst those various walks, I reminisce the days when you told me that people were homes.

    Homes ---- where the vines of love surrounded the entire boundry line, where rooms knew how to adjust and accomodate everyone they loved and how each brick had hundred and six memories attached to it.

    I grew up building more homes in people than in places and I thought that they would remain the same forever. But 355 days ago, I realised that the pink walls which you and I thought were"love", had begun shrinking, the paint had begun falling off.

    201 days ago, the pink walls danced around me whilst flaunting their new-found love for violet (do you think they made love with blue?).

    And today? Today, I carry a box of memories that has some bits and pieces of the paint that fell off the edges. I tried joining them together but they were just not enough for me to fit in.

    So, I'm writing this to tell you, that perhaps, people aren't homes. They're a river that changes its flow every now and then while you and I --- we're oxbow lakes --- too full of others.

    Maybe, just maybe, you and I are a silly poem, that has too many references and too little content of its own. Or those lines in a song that doesn't fit the rhyme scheme.

    ©Thewiltedflower

  • thewiltedflower 18w

    Of broken ties and unsaid goodbyes

    If Goodbye were a person, I'm sure, I would always be able to identify him from a distance. For the sheer numbness that he leaves behind is a trait peculiar only to him. My eyes no more shed tears on encountering him. I've grown used to the pain that marks his presence.

    But when "Unsaid" becomes the prefix, Goodbye and I become strangers. I've been often told that everyone who leaves trails in your life, will some day leave. And so, I entered into a contract with my heart : to not weep when someone leaves. Because isn't change the only constant?

    But what I never knew was that some people fade into the oblivion without prior notice. That some people drift away and you can't help but weep. And when you hold onto Goodbyes for a long time, they only leave some indelible marks.

    So with every person that left without a Goodbye, I chose to stick to hope. And I thought, that maybe my love was enough to guide them back. To me.
    To the castle of love that we had built.

    But over the years I've learnt that some people, make homes only to abandon them in a jiffy. That some people leave and never return.


    And that some goodbyes hurt more than others.

    ©thewiltedflower

  • thewiltedflower 18w

    Winter is anything but a poem that was left incomplete with a promise that it'll be completed some day.

    A poem that embraces the Earth, and the Earth blushes
    thus,
    covering itself in sheets of snow to hide its true feelings.

    The sunshine clad snow
    transcends
    the
    face
    of
    E a r t h,
    while
    drowning
    some
    memories
    and
    reviving
    others.

    On days, when my vision gets blurred with hopelessness, I find Winter enveloping my tongue, trying to lure my words to fall into its lap just before I decide to set them free.

    (that is perhaps why my voice
    b. r. e. a. k. s
    and
    s h i v e rs )

    Freezing, shrieking and trembling, my words find a way to slide into my aching throat.That by chance, is brimming with all the words that I never had the audacity to utter.

    So, on days, when it snows both inside and outside, I find myself being cradled by Melancholy in streets full of wilted hyacinths and half written elegies.

    She looks at me and her eyes sparkle like dazzling fairy lights and I can almost feel anxiety melting away;
    as if she knows how to lull anxiety to sleep.

    Her arms are perhaps the only place which I can label
    H
    O
    M
    E
    and the serenity that encompasses her aura is enough for my miseries to cloak themselves as poems and walk around shamelessly.



    She ties a few metaphors
    on my wrist as tokens of love.
    But each time, I try to set my pale wrists free, they leave a few goodbye kisses.

    Reasons never surrounded her presence and that's exactly why I always thought of her as a soft drizzle that whispered sweet nothings. Something that I wanted my intellect to dissect but at the same time, I hoped not to taint her beauty with stains of over thinking.

    Therefore, when the myriad hues of a rainbow fade away and the sky is a blank canvas, she drenches me in her greys and I wrap her in s(i)miles.

    -Neha

    ___________________________________ _____________________________





    When 5 incomplete drafts, some unused metaphors and a clumsy writer come together this is what you get! #alengthymess

    #mirakee #pod

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    In tokens and charms

    So, on days, when it snows both inside and outside, I find myself being cradled by Melancholy in streets full of wilted hyacinths and half written elegies.

    ©thewiltedflower

  • thewiltedflower 21w

    I've often witnessed
    poets connecting
    people and poetry
    by labelling
    people as
    P O E T R Y
    and weaving
    immaculate metaphors
    around their being.

    Maybe, it is
    easier for a poet
    (Like you)
    to find
    opening lines
    of a poem
    hanging casually around
    the corners of
    your muse's eyes
    when they smile.

    Or to envelope
    the plentitude of
    metaphors that they huff
    when they speak your name,
    in shades of similes.


    And that is, perhaps, why
    my textbooks are laden
    with tales of lovelorn poets
    who paint their muses
    in shades of tangerine, lilac
    and maybe, everything
    that is
    B E A U T I F U L.

    But I've often found
    the nefarious eyes
    of a poet
    abhorring
    the way
    their muse says
    "OH" out of utter fascination.

    Or how their eyes glimmer
    while adoring the
    lilac tainted sky
    during dusk.

    I always thought
    that the sole reason
    of their negligence was
    to preserve those moments
    in their heart and
    not to cage them in
    mauve sheets of paper.

    But maybe,
    just maybe,
    they leave them untouched
    because those are moments
    that often render a poet
    B E R E F T
    of words.

    -Neha

    ________________________________________

    #mirakee #pod #writersnetwork

    @musings_ @meghana27 @despair @ni89gale @cafenoir @jeelpatel @___7___ @meru_mukh @demasiado_gris

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  • thewiltedflower 25w

    Of incomplete conversations

    These days, the roads communicate with me when I walk. No, it's not that language of the 26 alphabets. It's an assemblage of all the words that the dried maple leaves whispered devastatingly --- of how she once, proudly, wore her emerald green dress.

    It's made up of the unheard ballads of a love letter. The one, that sleeps peacefully beside a poet's abandoned metaphors in moribund corners of the alleys. I've heard them complaining of how they were once put on a pedestal so high that the herculean fall shattered their confidence.

    It's a compilation of tears that a 5 year old shed whilst learning to ride a bicycle, of tears that a 15 year old shed while learning to handle life.

    These days, I fold my legs and sit beside trees (the ones where the sunshine manages to peek through the canopy ). I listen (carefully) to the conversation between the rustling wind and the eucalyptus leaves.

    And then, I put on a poker face. For I know not how to end conversations that begin with love and end with kindness.

    For I am a human being who knows only to converse in the language of hate and jealousy.

    ©thewiltedflower

  • thewiltedflower 25w

    Of faux hues and ephemeral promises

    Words are butterflies :
    with wings that are
    frail and beautiful like
    hues of a fading sunset.
    They are burdened to
    carry tales of saudade,
    euphoria and anxiety
    just to disperse them to
    far away lands.

    So you tell me to
    handle them with care
    because, carelessness, you say
    would tear apart their fragile wings.

    I've met poets
    who believe that
    Words are divine creatures
    with ichor running down
    their veins.

    And I've seen them luring
    words with the scent
    of faux emotions,
    only to trap them
    betwixt two pages of a book
    and embellish them with
    chunks of similes
    akin to their beauty.

    Poets, they say, are liars
    and I've seen them labelling
    words as "precious"
    only to leave them in an abyss later.

    But words evolve.
    And their wings become
    remnants of people who read
    and left a few fragments of themselves.

    Full stops become metro stations
    where each passerby leaves
    a new story and
    commas become swings
    where imagination plays.

    The stories that they narrate
    start resembling
    yours and mine
    and maybe, of every one else.

    Words are divine creatures!
    ©thewiltedflower

  • thewiltedflower 28w

    Sadness has a face.

    A face that has countless scattered lines of anxiety, scattered --- as if they were playfully drawn by a kid.

    Those almond shaped eyes are an ocean. An ocean that has learnt to gulp everything in one go. Yes, sadness has a face.
    A face that hides in plain sight.

    It's the face :

    1. of that old woman you met on the.
    metro station --- the lady who
    carried loose folds of skin and
    bulging eyes like they were heavy
    bags, tiresome to carry. But she
    somehow managed to zip them to
    keep the contents safe
    (And hidden)

    2. of that teenager who walks with
    drooped shoulders --- the one who
    reminded you of wilted hyacinths.
    His heart is a desert where dreams
    once bloomed. Now, he carries his
    broken dreams and insomnia on his
    fragile shoulders.

    3. of that lean man, who is a warrior in
    disguise. The one whose callous
    fingers are swords that murder
    sorrows, his eyes are flame
    throwers
    and his silence--- his ultimate
    weapon. All for the sake of his
    family.

    Yes, sadness has a face. A face that has been taught to camouflage. A face that hides in plain sight.

    A face
    that
    resembles
    your smile,
    my eyes,
    his nose,
    her hairs,
    or maybe,
    it has parts,
    of you and
    me and
    all of us.

    And
    at times,
    this face,
    coincides
    with the
    face of
    poetry.

    -Neha
    _____________________________________________________________________

    #mirakee #pod #writersnetwork #monotony

    I picked these (clumsy) words while I was on my way to school. No, this doesn't make sense and yes, I write incoherent posts.

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