i dreamt of you dying.they told me
love is dead so
i must bury you with it before you
metamorphose into ashes and nothing more, nothing
more.im picking words for love like you pick flowers
for the dead and and this is not my poem. if this is an almost madeup
poem, its not mine at all. this
is a postcard of bereavment to myself and each phrase is borrowed
like this sorrow i carry as my only child.
*
my skin feels like an essay on the Thar, palms like a madman's
prayer, limbs askew from the hunting of leeches,eyes swollen in
wait like the girls in my incomplete drawings,
incomplete because i fear if i carry on, they'll end up with a pool
before them and desert skin from too much semblance
to crazy, lonely postcard writers.my head feels like a snowball
and there seems to be a cardiac pause
whenever im trying to turn the commas in my heart into
semicolons- so that we are closely related independent
clauses and you can walk away but i'd still
mean something, though it never works
without the promise of a longer pause.
*
when i hear them saying Time makes love pass,
Time is nothing but sinister. but then they tell me
Time heals all wounds, and i try saying them together
and it only means wounds give you a reason to
return.
*
sometimes im shit scared of not getting
life's metaphors like the wind blowing sorrow
into my hair,sorrow thick and wild, failing to
get my heart back home.sometimes im shit
scared of what my mother might say next
and as she enters the room, she tells me that
it smells like
something just died.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
its just writing. seriously.
11 comments:
and girl you can write
and hah, my word verification says orackle
HOW in the world do you manage these things? Are they inspired? Or you just carve the words out with all the smoothness of Spiderman flying around New York?
Been a LONG time shippy, how're you? :)
@shruti hahaxD and :)ty.
@JD- oh well i take littil borrowed/meanigless crumbs and keep adding till they snowball into boulders and then i just get them off my chest like this. i'd call that inspired. i suck with words otherwise :P
and YES we should totally catch up oh gtalk soemtime :/
Ah! There goes another person who makes better poetry than me. I make shit anyway.
Howvwer, it reminded me that you should bloody well write and bloody well add images to that. x-(
p.s:Loved the 'essay on Thar'
we're all in death-of-love mood it seems. or is it just upcoming exams? =D
@debanjan- well ive scrapped you a reply
@mandy YES to both. and its totally disturbing when you dream of people dying on your birthday.
I should read this, but it's deadly long.
*After reading*
So, I guess the vagueness will pretty much stay with me the entire day, as with the metaphorical ephemera that are strewn chaotically. It makes for a beautiful poem, whose essence escapes me as of now.
Awhsome. Very intriguing I must say. But the only glitch being that it wasn't in a proper format. I mean the capital letters and punctuation. For me that is very essential. Rest all was flawless.
Cheers!!
third paragraph (my skin feels..) is the best !! keep writing ! love ur writing and blog !
"whenever im trying to turn the commas in my heart into
semicolons- so that we are closely related independent
clauses and you can walk away but i'd still
mean something, though it never works
without the promise of a longer pause"
i know this syntax, clinging on from the pages of past, interrupted by the unprecedented future.
I was good reading you.
anisha
The scrap does not hold any avalue, and neither will any thing here! I stick (with extra doses of fevisticks and fevicols) to my word. :D :P
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