Art

art.

you were almost as beautiful as art. 

almost.

if only i could paint you with my hands, my hands all over your body

caressing

smothering

smoothening paint all over you. 
you looked extremely overwhelming for a human like me. 

your eyes had long lashes

your lips had perfect cuts

you had the exact kind of body that people tag others in as ‘hashtagBodyGoals’.
honey

you were just perfect 

just the perfect blend of colours and talent.
unfortunately

i was either colourblind or not an artist maybe.

Alcohol

a quarter

a half
a glass

a bottle or two

smelling of your skin with itself all over you. liquid in air, solid within breaths, difficult to exhale, solitude takes rest. 
noisy silences, adorable ugliness, adversarial compliments hitting stones on the pavements. 
afar with no communication affordability, sipping hot coffee.raised eyebrows, angst filled in every vein and heavily downfall pouring of damson coloured rain. 
cynical as always, rejecting mugs of beers, holding onto 3 teaspoons of coffee powder and 1 cup of milk to go. 
drinking poison in different odd ways, failing as always and yet leading the race. 
soul decorated with crimson bad blood, eyes still struggling with fallen dreams, making sounds of thuds. 
bunches of fallen hair on every bedsheets you laid on to, 
sit
relax
you know you don’t want to.
banana peels off the skin and expensive dreams dripping down the chin.
destroyed to the blood core, extortionately devastated, no breaths left to take, and existence defeated.

alcohol, my love, is not the most poisonous. 
it is grinder mixed hatred on every occasion, everyday, and pointless sharp spheres with poetry voiceless.

Wild flowers

//you did wonders to my body and soul, i had wild flowers growing from the ashes of your thoughts left behind lingering inside my mind. these flowers smell of nothing and yet manage to occupy enough air to make you want me, not through physical motions but enough through emotions//

Stars, galaxy and shit.

We were never on the same roads to have walked like the galaxy belonged to us. 

We were like the two parallel roads that walked together but never met. We were the one’s who drove the same bikes and yet travelled different paths and that is how we became the immortal stars. But you moved away with another star, some more light years away from our galaxy and mingled into someone else’s universe, and that is how I became the northern star, lonely and yet capable enough to shine so bright all by myself.

(15.01.2017)

BROKEN


Broken. 

He doesn’t talk much , he doesn’t walk much. I’m scared that he’s in dumps. I worry , he’s always dreary. I’m sorry but I cannot help.

Broken. 
He’s living a mundane life , always carries in his pocket , a knife and I’m scared that he’ll kill my love. He’ll kill the pigeons and the doves.

Broken. 
He’s more cloudy than the darkest clouds. He’s abjected. I feel dejected , for my soft spot is on flames. I’m scared that there’s no one to blame. I couldn’t even claim so I’ve to continue playing this woeful game.

Broken.
He’s breathing but not alive. He’s waiting for his funeral , watching everyone ethereal and blaming himself for this life. I’m scared that his winters will last forever , and he won’t get to see the autumn and the summer.

Broken.
Mondays are , as always , blue but he’s got no clue. He’s started enjoying the gloom , living in his garden without a bloom. I’m scared that he’s stuck and he cannot move. He’s made a forlorn , bereaved castle for himself , with the guards , themselves , in doldrums.

Broken. 
He’s learned to pretend that his jagged corners are fine to live with , when actually they’re cutting him into pieces and slices , a little , everyday. I’m scared that his shaky hands , the ones which once rocked drums in a band , will no more be able to hold cigarettes. And I’ll be left behind , without him , with regrets.

Broken.
Not only he’s , but I’m too. I’m in pain to see that the cracks in the wall are still empty , that the bummer is still here in summer. I’m scared that I’ll be downhearted and heartbroken. That I’ll be in gloomy clouds too. Not just torn apart , he is. He’s killing me too.

Broken. 
This six-letter word had never been so significant in my life before , but now it appears everywhere , on every door. And I’m not just scared but petrified too that I won’t be able to help him.

Broken.
He WAS. He used to cry. I never did try. And now , I’m not scared. I’m dead because he’s too. I never wanted to loose him but as I’m now left with nobody , I wish I could be THAT somebody to help him get away from entering this conundrum and once again , happily , let him play his drums.

Broken. 
He wouldn’t have been. But I was scared and didn’t want to be scared anymore so I gave up , in between. And now , as I lean , I’m keen to know that why couldn’t I care a bit more? Why couldn’t I lead him to the shore?

Broken. 
Now , I’m. And I’m not scared. I’m just DEAD.

You’ll know…

The zephyr flows and the wind shields close

winters , it is and I’m yet not so cold.
I’m not cold from outside and partly not from inside too 
I’m just a little sad and maybe a little mad too 
but I won’t shed tears ,
I won’t shed tears for I’m glad ,
that I left in time.
I left YOU in time.
And so , I want to tell you people out there 
to not run after love , lovers and love stories ,
instead 
sit. 
Wait.
And build your own mysteries ,
build your own mysteries and solve all of them on your own ,
write a story 
or maybe write a poem.
But just do not try to romanticize anything and everything ,
for I know , his eyes were never oceanic blue 
nor were they ever full of letters or beautiful clues. 
They were plain brown in shade , 
the shade , one which is like the toasted bread 
or maybe some dark coloured thread.
And for guys , her cheeks were never rose red 
nor was she a delicate and a fragile petal of some flower ,
she had a monotonic skin colour which she beautified or maybe plastered with makeup
and about being fragile , she never was. Nobody ever is. She just wanted you to pick her up or maybe just pay some more attention. 
So , stop it
Stop romanticizing every little thing. 
Instead 
go and walk barefoot on the grass and you’ll know what plain and simple things feel like ,
go and help your mother cook breakfast and you’ll know what pleasure it is to cook for others ,
go and meet your friend whom you haven’t seen in years and you’ll know that friendship meant everything back then and still does. 
Just appreciate the way the leaves fall down from the trees ,
or the way birds come to your garden and chirp their hearts out
or the way that particular dog wiggles his tail at you everyday
or maybe just stop and sit for a while and stare at nothing. 
Maybe 
just maybe
take your cycle out and go for a long cycle ride early in the morning 
and you’ll know that there’s something pious and ethereal about dawn ,
though you’ll be sleepy , you may yawn
but you’ll thank yourself for escaping the monotony of life 
and you will , later on , appreciate yourself for being jovial without anyone else 
you’ll know that you can be at peace 
all by yourself
and you’ll know 
that you can be happy anyways.
So just be the person 
whom you want as your lover. 
I won’t promise the happiness 
but you’ll surely be proud of yourself.
You may have to lead a difficult life 
but you’ll have all the answers and solutions within your insides.

-November 4 , 2016

Ironies. 

Tough outside and torn inside.

Halo on top and fettered at foot.

Rain in dreams and drought in life.

Overruling thoughts and underestimated power.

White on outer and inner black.

Sweet on top and sour inside.

Jovial smile and lifeless soul.

Petunias in garden and dead roots.

Irony outshone and love failed.