I’d spread them
even in the harshest winters
to withstand all the seasons with pride.
I wouldn’t let the downfall
or the criticism be the demise
of my soaring words.
I’d feel the air of liberty
fiercely across my face
through the gliders of literature.
Nothing hurts more than witnessing your once loved one now turned into ashes of despair and that the time has won again by reducing to zero for someone but still thumping for you as a vile reminder of the memories you’ll now carry into your heart till the day you die, of your people gone beyond.
That now you won’t be able to hear them calling your name again. You won’t be able to see their faces while they adored you. You won’t get a call from them anymore And you’ll sit there wondering why ever you missed even a single call when they were alive.
One day somebody would casually talk about them and you’d spill the beans with a heavy heart and a piercing pain in your chest to forcibly say “It’s fine” when people would apologize for unknowingly bringing up the topic. Only you’d know it’s never going to be fine.
– hum along the song in an awful voice while the earphones are plugged in tight.
– wearing scrunchies or headbands (rubber band to tie hair) in the wrist because that way it suits better and you don’t lose it either.
– Screaming on top of my voice because of the loud music honking in my headphones and for certain, the other person has suddenly become earless to hear my voice.
– Spacing out while sitting in the middle of the conversation among guests, friends or even parents.
– thinking about the afterlife and how that’s going to work out for me. <facepalm>
– the lightness I feel after a cathartic effect of ‘a good cry’ in the bathrooms
– No matter how old or mature I get, my cheeks feel the reddening the moment I am complimented. I still don’t know how to take those normally
– Pick my nose when no one is watching <ssshh… we don’t talk about this>
– Laughing on my own jokes when no one gets it.
The Rose petals in my journey have dried into shades of brown and your photographs in my drawers haven’t tasted air for years now but the bushes of thorns are still thriving preventing me to reach those pictures that I must leave behind.
The lovesick Lavender have now stopped screeching in a high-pitched cry after finding the purpose of embalming the corpse of our deserted memories, ironically decorating it with scented tales and floral fossils of love.
The Lantanas in my dry garden spread itself at the reminiscene like a cluster of bright, vibrant shades of desires sprouting as weed but representing beauty with rigour.
The conquest of Hibiscus in my spine isn’t confined to its seeds of poking at the past but also through its root capable of rising as phoenix from the ashes of the dead past, raging hard as one who is full of purposes now.
The Rosy Periwinkle in my shadow shrunk itself as the demon and the angel depending on how you perceive it. It now carries the power to cure the monsterous cancer of my insanity and the poision of your disposition that wilted me along the journey.
The Salvia around my aura now heals me by adding a texture and colour of my own identity with a subtle quality of protecting me against the plague of being crushed under the shoes of your dark, twisted behaviour.
The Portulacas in my hair have grown wild adopting a tendency to outgrow the firm grip of smokey traditions and downright arrogance that had me pinned down before with all of its mighty force.
A flower worth adorning, the soft plant worth the cure, is gonna reborn from its seeds as many times as you stomp on it.
Soft isn’t weak.
The attic is like my personal blanket protecting me from the seasons of Goodbyes, disappointments, dilemmas and my constantly engulfing hunger.
The dampness in the walls erode the noiseless scars in me like peeling out excessive skin and baring out the ugly tangent I never wished to face, that got wet from my own waterfall when the wait was too much to bear.
The darkness in the room trying to grasp the light scantily tells me that even demons, sometimes, run behind the light when their rage tries to conquer their innocent turmoil.
The scarcely visible space in the attic is an embodiment of all the old memories I kept on stuffing inside, suffocating the good ones along gradually losing their radiating tint and couldn’t sprout a new one unless I entered the space and made my way through the clutter.
The most grotesque, greasy and outlandish figures, scrolls, toys, ideas, memories, silences, emotions adoring the attic.
How come it is possible to be attached to something that shows the mirror of your unorganised poetry?
Unrequited Love :
(noun)
– Being in love with someone who does not, and will never, love you back.
Do the words “will never love you back” not make you think of being stranded at crossroads with no intention of choosing which way to go where you could win your favorite person along with their hearts? The seed of love that grew inside, ignorant that the world is already filled with beautiful and ever-giving trees, never dwelled upon how this little plant will endure the storm of refusals.
Loving someone with no hope of being loved back is an act of bravery and foolishness in itself. Something no less than a punishment.
You pluck a piece of your heart, offer it to them but that piece starts mourning itself for being unwanted & rotten for too long.
There are no rainbows, unicorns, scarlet skies, skewed snowfalls in one-sided love yet there are all present because you don’t expect the other person to return your love and you witness all the feelings of love standing and looking at them from afar.
They say when you are in love with someone you can’t be friends with them. But in amidst of all these sayings, you choose what your heart desires. If you can still see them, talk to them in the pretense of friendship ,and don’t expect anything else out of this except their presence then you experience togetherness and loneliness all at the same time but it’s still worth it. There might be a mask of a labeled relationship but their smiles are worth millions of poems you still want to read.
That is the happy bubble you create for yourself along with the anticipated memories of your lover.
With growing anticipations, sometimes emerges the desire to confess in moving one step further. You know it, yet muster up courage only to be rejected bearing no menace towards them. A sign of enormous strength and pure feeling towards that person.
Who do you want to blame Time, situation, yourself, or them?
Broken edges of your heart pierce with the first question “Are you playing a lead role in your own life that you wanted to become one in theirs?”No matter how appalling self-doubt is, tearful eyes still dream of them. All the questions come down to why getting involved when you thought it won’t yield anything? Why take risks when it’s dangerous? Why even bother living when you have to die eventually.
But we just don’t know how to run away from situations we are meant to face, or from people we love and this one-sided love makes us reach the epitome of wait and patience. We are brave knowing how scary our loneliness in loving the one who’d never be a part of our life.
Unrequited Love has got more cons than pros but one good thing is you would know when to call it off. You would be the boss of your feelings to end it when.
There will be tons of articles on the internet, pieces of advice from your friends but you are going to move when your heart will have its fill of waiting around.
My mother’s kitchen is like
a symbol of boldness and acceptance.
Stove of valor that cooks the hottest meals pinches itself whenever it burns her.
Fascinating utensils that hold the substance but only they know how empty they are.
The doors of cupboards have been broken long ago but nobody pays attention to that since no one enters her kitchen,
just like her heart.
The smoke summons her own childhood when she sat with her mother, the last time she was spoiled.
The food prepared is worth defying the restaurant cuisines but ofcourse it fails her at the garnishing, with its jazzy
exterior look.
Her kitchen is like a rose with its thorns, keeping people at bay. It’s a place where she fights alone, in her mind.
With the fuel, the fire, the flames, the fuming question
why only she was subjected to this tiled war room.
To the writer in me
You are no less
than a businessman.
Selling emotions
for just few words.
Metaphors with blunt edges,
Verses of your affair with solitude,
Words like scratched knees,
Rhymes of unheard voices,
Lyrics like the essence of Grandma’s pickle,
Limericks with lavender folklores,
Poems of used pens at sunset,
Ode to eccentric emotions keeping sane,
A piece of poetry coated in paints of love and pain
exhibited as the canvas of emotions.
We sell all.
**Writers sell emotions**
