The lines in my hand are aggressive.
They have this criss-cross fights
against the others.
Some put up well,
Some mark a scar,
Some lie lifelessly.
Stranger’s eyes read them and
predicts the life I’ll live in future.
Sometimes I’ll put up well, sometimes
I’ll have to earn scars and other times
I will just lie there blandly giving
up on the reasons to fight for.
But as I said, these are aggressive
wrinkles I inherited directly from
those whose grip never dwindled
from their swords.
Sometimes I like the noises around,
It makes me feel less lonely.
It breaks my heart when I witness no one nowadays can talk about how loneliness kills you from inside. The moment your truth is released from the clutches of a rib-caged heart and lands on the soft tip of your lips, you are bombarded with thousands of scriptures written anonymously on how to love thyself. And anyone who had truly known self-love would know how authentic loneliness is. Self-love is about acceptance of whatever you had been feeling. It’s the courage you develop over the years of trembling and tumbling that loneliness is as true of an emotions as happiness, and you must be okay to face it.
If day exists how can one deny the existence of night. You need a torch light especially walking on a dark path and without its existence the light would lose its meaning. I have seen so many people feeling it, agreeing along with movie dialogue’s but never admitting to it. The fear, the fear that you feel lonely can make people judge you so harshly, that the easy way is to shut the mouth, shut the soul who feels it, shut the mind that reminds it.
This saddens me to the core how disposable human’s feelings have become. We humans were meant to feel everything and then walking on a path of deciding which one to feed more to keep us going but what do we do, we filter out on the basis of pretending eyes. Eyes which were shrieking of parallel vulnerabilities but wearing blinkers of lies of what they had been feeling all this time.
This is true, loneliness doesn’t mean you don’t have people around, it means you don’t have right set of people around but sometimes even if you have, even if you love yourself it crowns you like a melancholic demon. It’s one of the emotion like others. You are allowed to feel it and all you have to do is not get consumed by this demon.
But how sad it is to not being able to share it with anyone when maximum of the population goes through the same emotion.
If you have one person to whom you can say
‘i am not okay’
‘i am feeling lonely’
and that person just hears you out with no judgements or counseling then you are luckier than you think.
I had started the path of becoming like that person long ago, and I hope I reach there one day.
While you carry the entire
world on your shoulders;
There is a tiny being
preparing herself to be
your support system
even before you get older.
That tiniest version of
your authentic self,
making sure you never
give up on your self-belief(s).
Goodness in her eyes
purity in mind;
Those little feet
gives you the wings to fly.
They so much become like you
yet so much challenge you
and sometimes, even
protect you like you’d do.
A best friend you receive
directly through the heavens.
The next person
who’d be your backbone
after your mother;
is your own daughter.
If ever I got a chance
to pick a magical object
at the pawn shop then it
would be a crescent blade
that can cut off pain
from the happy memories.
I had tried and tried so hard
but had not been able to
re-live the flakes of moments
without dissing myself
and throwing into the pit of
overgrowing melancholy.
I wondered the poetry
I exhaled is a cure
of a damaged heart
but all it did was
gracefully become
an active volcano
exploding to an extent
that numbed my sensory organs
and showed me a naked
truth of poems being
a catalyst in crackling fire in me.
What if I told you that I am that ‘Evil Queen’ who, pragmatically, established the clear boundaries of evil against the good with a help of an apple? What if I told you the mirror I was infamously portrayed with, was no magical but a concrete reality that unveiled my harrowed insecurities and loathly self, who only wanted to feel better of herself but kept misquoting her worth through a lowly piece of glass.
What if I confess that it wasn’t my dark magic that conjured up all the poison in that apple but the debris of my self-respect which was smothered under the pretense of an ugly face I carried, by all those bullies who knew nothing about looking beyond the pale, helpless skin. When I was falling off over the destroyed precipice of my innocent self, no one paid heed to a good heart before calling me a wicked soul.
What if I told you the time has gone by and the Snow White(s) of today isn’t a synonym of fairest skin and purest heart? Or who is to know in the former era, who the actual evil was? The stories are told and briefcase-d the way it suits the purpose of the past and the message to be sent across into the future.
That poisoned apple was a reply to all those criticism I had to endure because of those bullies. And believe me, evil isn’t born in a single night but sculpted through tremendous hate and hostility, forcefully hammering distaste inside and axing out the appreciable parts.
The reason it was taken out from the pages of history or better-called fiction, is because it held shreds of evidence of a crossover with Dr. Frankenstein, when I begged him to revive my innocent self while I was on the verge of losing it but what unleashed was was a monster that killed everyone in its way, even the people most loved by it. That apple was an embodied version of a poisoned monster I never knew existed in me before I met the fiend one, called discrimination.
A part of me is holding back tears
as though these have found a
permanent home in me.
My hands clench in a fist so those
tears have a shrinking companion
when my body stands stubborn as hell.
What has gotten into me that every
breath I heave feels like it’s dissipating
from under a large boulder placed
on top of my lungs?
My toes have a funny way of pulling
itself in and out before it places it’s
foundation on a doormat of my heart;
that has been wet for so long and no
one had cared enough to dry it for me,
not even I, myself.
Probably, the tears I hold back has an
empty sense to rhythm with a clear sky
turning it into thunderous monster rain.
Does my sanity keeps touching the ground
to know if I’m still present in this world?
Or is it another episode of deja-vu
where my insanity reminds me of a barren
mind I possess?
I was never a speck of dust
but a journal of those scattered souls
who poured their siphoned poetries
in an attempt of re-writing their fairytales.
My 3am sapphire blank pages
caped with teary storm
had a funny way of
seeping sadness in sleepless souls.
A hugh blue hue carpet
I possessed at ascended heights
that didn’t kill but kept them
afloat on mayhem of daydreams.
It was me who cried hard
but the people below, the empaths,
silently tasted my sad whispers
and instead took a rain check
on their dreams.
A long time ago there were 2 friends, a writer, and a painter. Both were equipped with exquisite taste, talent, and were well-known connoisseurs of their art. One painted a world of luminant imagination and the other gave flavored words to the world. One day they made a bet. The painter said,
“I would love to know what influences the world more- my vivid colors or your moving words?” to which his writer friend willfully agreed.
The painter painted the most extraordinary piece of fine art, something even he was really proud of. The writer friend wove the most beautiful words for the painting describing each visual like a strand of gold.
They both put an exhibition and asked people to share their thoughts. Some liked the painting more and some dotted over the words chosen to describe the painting. At the end of the day, it turned out both of them got equal votes for their craft. The friends agreed that both painting and the writing had the power to move the world but still there were some blanks in their hearts they couldn’t fill even after the exhibition.
They were almost on the verge of calling the day off and the writer friend was wrapping everything up that he saw the last person who came to their exhibition. The writer saw from afar, an old man hugging the painting and shedding tears of joy.
The painter friend came back running to his friend when the writer said,
“I know you won. That guy bought your painting, isn’t it?”
To which the painter replied,
“Yes, he certainly did. The old man hugged the painting because he was so moved by those words which made him remember his golden childhood days. He was blind, he couldn’t see my colors but when I read the scroll out loud he broke into tears. It were your words that painted the image in his heart to which he cried for.”
“I asked him purposely if he wanted the painting. The old man said the soul resides in the words how he could separate it from the colorful portrayal of it. Then, I asked if he only wanted the written scrolls? He said those words would lose meaning if weren’t aligned with the masterpiece that comes alive under the sky of expression, so he bought both; my colors and your words.
So you see, neither I nor you won. And, if you ask me who won. It’s ‘The Art’.
Our Art and everyone else’s that struck us like comets of enlightenment, of safe-haven, unending epilogues, like a gush of windy imagination, a language of love, the pilgrimage of emotions. It passes us or sometimes stays in our lives and we simply can’t turn away from their beauty for it takes us to another world that seems unearthly while our feet touching the ground.
So my friend here’s to being a part of building different and unique perceptions of this universe.”
And they both cheered.