Lull

Let’s put the kettle on 
A book, a sheet, and a song
Let the wrists find their ways
Around twists, yawns 
And hypnotic sways 
The wind, the shore 
Fill the remaining silence 
We trance to our unusual 
Carefree alliance 
Discordant and lost 
We hum the chorus 
Not attractions
But the moment 
Is allowed to seduce us

_____

My first for NaPoWriMo.

Haven’t

I have breathed
But I have not lived
I have moved 
Yet I have not lived 
I turned through decades 
Sliding down slides 
Gliding down corridors 
Bold verses brought with them
Yet I have not lived
I have been mugged into alleyways 
Darkness and dark thoughts created 
I have been stripped bare of experiences 
I wasn’t allowed to have 
Opportunities found the lane
To my home too narrow 
The gates too rusted to be graced
Yes I have not lived
I have waited 
Years of my life have gone up in smoke
I have waited and lost all threads 
To hold on to with a looking forward 
I have scribbled on walls
Of my fate and self induced imprisonment 
And I have not lived
I have grown from hiding in wardrobes 
To not fit under the bed with my demons
And I have not lived
Had I maintained journals ardently 
I’d have vague sketches of the constancy 
Of these lunar phases at my disposal to refer to
But I have not lived
Not enough and not fairly 
Never in a way I’d term satisfying 
I have not lived and that’s how I lie to myself 
I lie and say I haven’t lived 
Or have I 
Have I been storing memories away
Not labeled as proper expected experiences 
The unexpectedly abnormal 
I forget 
I’m ashamed I forget
That these too are experiences
If not normal and conforming 
Neither conventional nor convenient 
But they are mine
Mine to call to recall to relive as I please 
But I don’t 
I put them to sleep 
And tend to them when they wake up 
From nightmares 
Yet I say 
I haven’t lived 
I haven’t lived as others did
I haven’t grown as others did
I haven’t had smoother paths with silken shoes
I haven’t had guiding lights without prices to pay
I haven’t scorched myself without stories to tell
I haven’t 
I haven’t had normal as all define it
I haven’t lived 
I haven’t lived
As all did
Yes
Yes
I haven’t lived 
No 
I haven’t lived

Just that

Pain begets poetry. 
Pain begets art. 
A fact so often glamorized 
And glorified 
But past the layers of reassuring illusions 
It’s just that. 
The sickest of truths.
For what gives pleasure 
To one’s senses 
Probably came into existence 
After slit veins
Charred throats
And all sorts of metaphoric 
And literal 
Forms of pain 
Wove their way into an artist’s life.
Such is the sick
Twisted beauty of creating art. 
One must burn
So another in another time
Doesn’t. 
Having found solace 
In relatibility.

Part of her

I’m like her
You’re like her
You look… Like her
They say 
They coo 
Am I 
Am I
I stretch my face
Tug it this way and that
Where’s the resemblance 
I can’t see it
But it’s there
Genetics of course
Bipolar
Schizo 
Shhhhhh
Not so loud
They’ll hear you
They don’t know
They don’t know
Her truth
Your truth
My… My truth 
Schizo
Question mark
All they see
Are physical reflections
Features passed down
A generation but
Is that all I got
From her
Or is there more
Silently brewing 
In my veins 
Waiting to manifest 
Its ugliness
My mind is crippling 
Seeing her deteriorate
I burn in the shadows 
Her suffering casts
To have been subjected to
Neglect and indifference 
Was better I suppose 
Because how
Will I continue
If my DNA shows
Its dark side 
How will I cope 
After having seen 
The prolonged storms
All these years 
I am after all
A part of her
She was my world 
Till my world crumbled
Into a pile of schizo
I was a part of her
I am… A part of her
And I am afraid 
Have been suppressing this fear 
For years past
That I am afraid 
To discover 
Which parts of her
Consist of the part
I am of her
Strip me of my identity 
Take away the years 
Even from the beginning 
I’ve only been 
A part 
Of hers

Recurring

Clouds behind my eyes 
Everything’s muddled 
In scraps
And puzzle pieces 
I’m being sucked
Into this black hole
Uncorked by events 
And nuances untraceable
A slight pulsating of beats
In my center 
A core I no longer 
Identify with 
How clichéd to claim 
I have lost my ways 
How clichéd to try
To find 
What cannot be retrieved 
Swirls of thoughts 
Disconcerting and disconnected
Waves of winds with me
In the eye 
So clouded my vision
How futile these tries
The faint beating 
And the anger quietening
Both reducing 
To faint hums 
To wake up 
In another time 
In another winter 
A year or years later 
For the same different reasons 
For the same different people 
Like patterns 
Are shadows to my shadow self
Fleeting and recurring
Oh the sad tales
These recurrences bring
Lessons of trust 
Lessons I must 
Not forget 
But I do in the flow
Tides of emotions promise 
And I in all my mistrust 
Of grand words
Like fancy ships 
That can only sink
And I don’t want to drown 
Not again 
Not again and again 
I wish 
The haziness over my vision 
Could close shut these whisperings
Nonsensical and broken 
Everything once again 
Is in scraps and puzzle pieces
I sway to the wind’s 
Wayward motions
Wayward wayward 
Wayward motions 
This is just another recurrence
Of a state that repeats itself 
Every now and then 
Unpredictable of how and when
Everything feels broken 
And incomple–

Echoes

Do you ever write something so wretchedly personal 
So intimately directed by your subconscious 
That you sit back struggling to quieten
The persistent beating beneath your inked collarbone 
Verses you thought had meanings you’d assigned 
But when in reality they went much deeper 
Tugging at memories that belong in dusty attics
In shoeboxes of photographs and postcards 
Decorative sequins having lost their sheen
You breathe in the scents lurking in the echoes
Textual reminders yearning to hide in your shadows 
These words that initially were meant for an audience 
Will now be held too close to the chest, barred and secured 
Aching with hollowness and mirrored echoes
Put to sleep in their tragic beauty between sheets

2nd anniversary, and getting emotional.

IMG_20150225_221057

Wow. 25th February. My blog turned two years old today! :D

Um. I’m not very good at writing normal blog post type of blog posts, where I have to express myself in a non-poetic way. But I’ll say this:

This blog, has been a journey, or should I say, it has been chronicling a journey of sorts. I have grown, as a person, as a writer, poet, and it is only through the pieces arranged so chronologically here, that I can determine the depth of these changes, these transitions. 
I can see, where I faltered and why. The times I posted so much poetry and the months I completely disappeared. 
A kind of journal, a memory of memories with words that induce these emotions and vaguely paint replicas of experiences, in our head. As opposed to our memories that mostly contain images, sounds, and smells. 
And I want to thank the people, all of you, who stop by, and read these pieces. Those few seconds and minutes you take off your time, I can’t return them, but I can only hope, that they’re worth it.
So thank you. 
Some of you I’ve known from the beginning, and I still see you guys around. And it feels great. Thanks for sticking by. 

Speaking

I’m trying and trying 
To get used to speaking out loud 
But how can I get used to it
When people won’t even
Hear me out

I feel invisible 
In conversations I feel unheard 
My attempts go unnoticed 
As if my words 
I never uttered 

Alone
In my solitude 
I read aloud and speak
With freeness 
And hesitation 
Fluency and creaks 

My voice sounds alien 
To ears of my own
My sentences 
Trailing off
Like vehicles 
In search of home

To speak through writing
I’ve gotten used to it so much 
It has been my guide 
To expression
It has been my crutch

This is still new to me
To actually voice my thoughts 
Without commas and quote marks
To phrase a phrase verbally 
To pause and end without dots

As I grow familiar 
To the sound of how I think
Maybe someday 
My voice will travel far
And my words will not sink

Between

A love that existed
Between parentheses

That breathed between 
The pauses of commas

That didn’t end with a period 

Whose continuance wasn’t dependant 
On the urgings of hyphens

A love that wasn’t summarized 
By the beginnings and endings
Suggested by paragraphs 
Too grand to be colloquial

A love cancelled
By discontinued penmanship

A love lost 
To pages misplaced
Letters half written
And misportrayed

A love 
That existed
Between the journey 
Where a page ended
And the next 
Began