So Put Down Your Knife And Live Your Life.

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Art Work from One Tree Hill

I look outside of my window,
and everyone seems to be just like me,
And entirely different.
They too have one nose,
two legs, two arms,
hair on their head,
two eyes, a mouth.
But do they have
the mole on my hip,
the curve of my lip.
do they have the
memory of my lisp?
Do they have the
clothes that I wear,
the things that bring me to tears,
the voice that I get when I cheer?
Do they have the nights
I spent in love,
the noons when songs
from years ago, made me realize
how living has never changed,
and that the pain that
I felt has been felt before
and the happiness
with my friends, has made
hearts grow more giving, before?
DO they have my life,
m y  m e m o r i e s
the blood that runs
in my veins, the thoughts
that I think,
the essence of me,
t h e  p o e t r y
in me, my grace, my stance?

No. They don’t.

They why should I feel replaceable?

How The Rain Makes Me Feel

I wish I could feel like how rain feels,
On a warm, steadfast night
and the way it makes the world feel,
at rest, in motion, just quite right.
I wish for the patter of the rain,
and the silence that it casts around,
that peace of mind for an infinitesimal moment
That is lost, and at moments like these, found.
I wish the world unites as it does
when drops fall from high above us,
Makes me feel so wanted, gives a reason to stay,
For me, rain is belonging and it is trust.
It is how the things that leave us
have their own way of returning to us,
even when the blackest clouds block their way
It’ll make its way, it always does.
It made me feel like magic and stardust,
and my beating heart once stood still,
it folded in my hands and was lost,
leaving me with memories and goodwill.
It went through my soggy chest,
and left me feeling cold and lost,
and then as soon as I dried my breast,
it left me free and contained and breathless.
So maybe, the rain does wonders to us, the world
it leaves us free and tired and guarded and loved.

An Ode To My Blog

An ode to my blog, that turns five today, that has grown with me, always, through the thick and thin, never ending in its support.

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This was the day,
about five years ago,
on a whim, pressed enter;
I’ve grown, grown. 
Along the A, 
made some virtual friends
some old and young,
hope mends, mends.
Words come to life,
worlds come to life,
in endless pursuits,
endless strives. 
Furious binaries,
some ink and pen,
everything displayed,
in my little, worldly den.
A thirteen year old,
when hesitation stalled,
now eighteen years old,
I go on and on.

And yes this blog
that grew with her,
turns five today;
motherly love stirs. 
This love affair,
sometimes broken, 
may seem unusual,
but it always repairs. 
So, I write on and on,
and on and on,
and on and on, 
and on and on.

So I Sit Down To Write An Honest Poem

Another one of my poem’s from the poetry workshop by The Climber.

So I sit down to write an honest poem,
with bitterness running through me like blood
and it bothers me that my work
is not as good as the others.
Still I try to write and topics
course through my head- terrorism
and beauty and life and anxiety and
obesity and confidence and college-
and yet a single thought nags my mind
that I will never be as good as others,
my poetry (my pride) will never equal others
and that perhaps the
only thing I thought I was good at,
is just not enough.

All the time I thought that my inability
to talk and make friends
and dress to impress
and carry myself with ease and grace
and paint or sing or dance
or even make me worth remembering
was somehow compromised
by my ability (and a rather good one)
to write and impress upon, by my words.

All the late nights (and days and evenings and afternoons)
spent drowning in tears
and surviving on coffee,
the lofty pen saying things that the
mouth never dared to,
about betrayal and loyalty,
about depression and sadness,
about lies and truth
about sex and love,
about politics and drama,
about every damn thing that happened in life-
all those nights mount to nothing,
they were futile,
as useless as the nights I dreamt
of writing the most beautiful things in the world
(and the days at the park and evenings at the pub
and afternoons in classes).

And thus, with a feeling of self loathe
and desperation to create something
(hopefully memorable), I vent out
what is inside me, words slipping through
the tips of my fingers
into the keys, turning to binaries,
in zeroes and ones, appearing as I type
on the screen; the bitterness
diluting with every word that flows out
until all that is left is a somewhat emotionally
numb shell that hopes
this is perhaps enough to be
just enough, that perhaps
the naked, vulnerable front that has
been put forth is enough to be just good.

 

About Untold Love

Inspiration to write by Sylvia Plath, Mad Girl’s Love Song’s excellent reading.

I think the city grey has seeped into my soul, 
I knead my eyes with my knuckles, trying to be awake,
alive, though I have never once felt so antique, so old.

The bells ring constantly in my ears and, expectedly bold,
Paranoia seeps through the uninviting demeanor;
head conjures up images, unforgotten and forlorn.

A sweaty hand across the cheek, weak eyes dramatically rolled,
there is pleasure in the throbbing, feverish forehead,
Although, there isn’t a part that seems even remotely untolled.

Blackness is inviting, darkness bring the stars (those old
taunts), haunting the night, with a ray of hope
And somewhere, melancholy sighs then, with a head hot and heart cold.

Perhaps that’s what I got for having loved untold:
Broken hearts, wasted murmurs, they weave through the lovely night
And when the day comes, murmurs disappear, hearts repair,
and we go drunk into our loveless, snowy, slushed lives. 

Words Of A Despicable Old Man

The first time I ever experienced an euphoric high
was the one time I was returning from a weekend
getaway, just out of town, when I was eighteen,
and the car glided on the road, and all was quiet,
and the hum of the air conditioner and the
occasional honk from an overtaking car were the
only sounds that could be heard. Of course, there
were seven in the car, and the bag pressed in my
back, and the small speaker I held next to my neck,
played a ballad of rock and roll- of pain and hope, of
misery and destruction and a feeling of deservingness;
the setting sun and the smooth tarmac, the continuous
fence along the side of the road, and the trees that dotted
the highway that I soared on, and the drums and screams
and anguish that dripped from the voices of people who
sang, what seemed to be, lullabies to my aching heart,
made the air purer, and the heart, a little less anguished;
at that time, the mind felt cleared, a one way path,
like it was in the throes of a particularly euphoric orgasm,
and there was something that fit, maybe the lack of
thoughts that had blinded me for everyday of my goddamned
life, and somehow, I felt like salvation was here, and that
perhaps what I had lacked is clarity, for everything looked
as if the it had been washed a hundred thousand times, over
and over again, and with each wash, everything-
the world, the mind, the soul, the universe, stardust, life-
for once, in continuous and perfect symphony, and not a
haphazard, misplaced situation, increased its intensity a
thousand times over. Of course, it happened just that once,
because looking for that feeling again, has left me broken,
miserable, demented, and worst of all, unhappy,
because I spent my goddamned life looking for it,
when I simply could have lived through it, many, many, many
times over, but of course, I was a fool to not know it.

Carcass.

The solitary car drives into the humble
moon, slipping past humanity;
Not a single lives shines in
the headlights, on its way
to the impending doom.
Winds’ a whisper crawls
across, the lengthening
shadows all around;
eerie silence, like a
blanket. 3 hearts
beating as loud
as drums, the
tires acting
like bread
crumbs
in the
mud
that
will
set,

For the police to recover the bodies, three months later,
all bones and flies over the molten flesh,
hollowed sockets, stinking rot, skulls shattered,
they were not bodies, they were carcass, they were a mess.

Tonight.

Note: Mature content. Not advisable for children. 

The throaty laugh, they decisive eyes,
they spoke of deception running so deep
that a ship could sink and be lost at sea,
forever. Holding that hand with the bright
red nail at the end of each finger, she bites her
lips seductively and puffs out her bovine
bosom, with the hope that by the end of tonight,
it would have been thoroughly massaged, rubbed,
cupped, moaned against, again, and again, until
no more; the moon will not witness such ecstasy
and pleasure, and yet, the stars shall not bear to see
the tears rolling down each face, as each drowns their
sorrows in muffled cries of guilty pleasure,
and hopeful lies. She was a power that could not be stopped;
moreover she didn’t want to be stopped-
she wanted satisfaction and she wanted love,
and she wanted (in layman’s language) just wild,
casual men fulfilling her needs; her needs
that were indefinite, but she knew, as faith is bound
to keep people hopeful, that in these “wild, casual men”
she’d find her man who’d fulfill her carnal wishes,
and more so, who’d respond to her reckless plans with plans
even more unbelievable. But until then, she was just a doll,
who made love to men each night with purpose in her heart,
hoping that one of them would understand that it was not sex
that she had with them, she had bared herself to them
and all she wanted in return was for them to do the same.
She wanted their souls in her bare, naked hands.

The well tailored suit served one purpose,
it drew him attention, of everyone in the room
and one could feel the heat he emitted-
and he was not just himself (his goddamning looks)
but his money and power that permeated in
the room filled with cigar smoke- a heaviness
that royalty had just stepped in; and he was royalty after all.
Successful, rich and plenty of ship in plenty of seas.
But tonight, he wanted more, more than handful,
tantalizing pieces of flesh; he wanted to satisfy someone,
he wanted to make love, to be able to communicate
with each nerve ending at between the thighs and
kiss every inch of a smooth, supple neck-he wanted
to make someone moan in pleasure, cry in pain,
explode in ecstasy, tingle every part with his tongue-
he wanted the sky to memorize the night and the
wind to take it to distant corners of the world, in celebration
of making love, of invoking the angel and the devil in you;
he wanted more than sex; he wanted a night to remember.
Little did he know, tonight he’d have it, he’d have it all
in exchange for his soul.