Poetry

I wanna finish you
in a way
that satisfies my soul.
I wanna give you a shape
of reality
that builds a massive history.
I wanna make
you a rebel
the most can relate.
I don’t want you
to stop at
rains
Or heartbeats.

You have to outlive me.

I am quiet. I am a lover. I, unquestionably
romance with life. I want to fight back
and vent when I am lending my ear.
I’m grateful for every day tapping
on my shoulder so, I choose to
forgive but never forget. With
every passing pain the only
friend I found was that
sword that defeated
my fears with its
ink and made
my hidden
scars
surrender to
mighty poems.
But I have learned
how to be in control.
I have mastered the skill
how to carry the weights of
my words along my fat dreams.
I am growing each day, conquering
every minute. I reign by being kind to self,
not letting verses of grief drown me anymore.
A writer is born and I’ll turn it into a greater one.

The ‘K’ in my name stands for a ‘Knight’.
(If we go by the trend) 😉

I’m that scratched knee,
waiting for its human kid to blow air;
who’s all grown up now.

• 

• 

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?

It’s not fair to hurt your new people because of the pain you got from the old ones.