Home, away from home.

The stool at the chai shop will be full of dirt, the chai,
A bit too sweet to your liking;
You’ll knock the doors to 43 shops before finding the change to your 500 bucks,
Standing still is like descending stairs, two at a time,
Walking,falling down the stairs;
Every tear is a relic for the open drain
And every second, is a memory lost;
The snakes would rather stay under the covers, as companions they’re quite shy,
And the dogs crave for human touch;
The winds love you and the winds hate you,
They bring the aroma of your mom’s kitchen
And they take away his scent.

Advertisements

Take the hint, Please.

We all have an introvert within us,
When walking by the boy in the black t-shirt, for the millionth time
Always blabbering away,
The moment arrives, all you can mutter is,
“So.. Do you like bread?”;
Mustering courage, memorizing words,
He makes ahead,
The moment passes by faster than a blur,
She’s disappeared now, it’s too late to run and catch up.
The boisterous boy, he has a lot to say
His thoughts flow
when his pen swirls in harmony;
We have a lot to say,
The method might be a tad bit different,
A forced clumsy chuckle, clearance of a throat, loud shoes;
Look out for those, Listen.

Delicacy and Death

Some days I’m a sucker for perfection,

Wearing the right clothes, just the right amount of makeup,

My hair the perfect blend of waves and curls,

Each inch telling its own story;

I tread with great care, each second a translucent butterfly,

My hands, claws, I’m too careful to bruise it;

The day leaves too quickly,

Leaving me under the gentle nursing of a nightmarish night;

Some days, my hands are baby like and un-harming,

Each second, an infectious cluster of deadly virus I’m unable to destroy,

Unbelievably stretched;

Tingling wrists, ringing ears, calloused feet,

Dry hair and bloodshot eyes;

Happy is long back in the past

And I’ll be long dead before the future arrives.

The time turner

Mr. Remus Lupin

Boys Dormitory

Gryffindor Tower

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft &  Wizardry

Letters from your older self:

1. There’ll be people who’ll ridicule you for being who you are.

Don’t let them get onto your skin. You’re an exceptional wizard

and more importantly an exceptional human being.

2. You’ll encounter prejudice. Loads of it. Don’t fall prey to it.

Neither fall among those who’re prejudiced. Vow to remove to.

3. You will meet good people. They will love you for who you are.

Those people will be who you can call friends. Keep them close.

4. Some people will cheat you. Big time. They will walk in,

disguised as your friends. Beware of them.

5. When you scratch and bite yourself, make sure you clean up

and bandage your wounds.

6. You may lose friends, probably one, probably all of them. You

will find yourself in a rut. But believe me, you’ll emerge out.

Stronger. Protect with your life, the legacy your friends leave

behind.

7. Make peace with your inner demons. Some scars may never

fade and that’s okay. Appreciate the beauty that is a full moon.

Do not be afraid of it.

8. And remember,”To a well organised mind, death is but the next

great adventure.”

Please write my obituary, will you?

My life has always been full of almosts,

Failed potential as they call it,

I will not tell you about the attempt I made last month,

That my mother thanked God for my ‘narrow escape’;

I would have been almost gone

Had I not thrown up.

But I will call you at odd times, 3 in the morning

When I’ll be sure you won’t pick up the phone,

Later i’ll have another atrocity to blame on;

I’ll break your DIY cloud maker and paint the sky in grey scale,

My life is a gift I want to return;

You will not forgive me and we will not part on good terms;

But you will compel people to confuse your pen with my tombstone,

Please write my obituary, will you?

Dreams

 

When I was little, I wanted to be an astronaut;
Had always been fascinated by the night sky, the stars, the moon and the purple.
I imagined myself among the stars, in a white spacesuit, living in a capsule, getting out of it,
Whenever I desired. Floating among the stars, just being.
But then I grew up and saw a lot more to the night sky than little dots of light.
I saw smoke rise up from forests, skin cancer, pious waters turning opaque,
I imagined myself, with a small group of volunteers, wearing yellow gloves,
Picking garbage from hill slopes.
I grew up more and my father took me to a blind home.
I saw a lot more to the world than what I knew;
Tears, tobacco, children;
When I was little, my mom read me to bed, every story ended with, “.. and they lived happily ever after.”
She read me the ‘The Match Girl.’. The match Girl dies in the end;
The Match Girl taught me that a story is never finished, just abandoned.
Everything I wanted to do and everything I wanted to be, I could, there was only a matter of time,
New dreams, acquired, dreamt, abandoned.

I’m a ‘spatterer’

I’ve always wanted to be to able to draw,
sketch,
paint,
I’ve always felt envious of artists;
I can never tie the perfect braid,
my winged eyeliner is a a straight line and my nails,
are gooey gobs of colour.
I, once made chocolates from scratch,
he refused to eat them, he said they looked “unappealing”
(They were delicious, Trust me, I know,
I was the only one who ate them)
Slicing an apple, taking clay out of a mold,
You name it, I mar it.
I’ve never iced a cake but if I do,
it’ll be nothing but a big sugary blob;
My mom calls it having a neat hand, Precision,
Anything I do is all but neat,
Aesthetic;
I am more of what I say a “spatterer”
Let it flow,
splash,
drop,
get up.

Masquerade and Misfortune

My brain is  a minefield,

My brow is anything but proud,

My eyes are a prison, the tears are the prisoners,

Cracked lips and straight lines;

My throat is filled with desperate pleas,

My lungs starve for breath,

My heart is a haunted house;

My wrist is a battlefield,

My nails dig nothing but the past;

My stomach is a black slug,

My legs are clanking silver spoons,

My feet, bruised and clumsy;

My hands hold onto mishandled conjunctions,

My pen is a throbbing heartbeat,

My journal, is a graveyard.

A morose charity?

When I die, give my eyes to my father,
For once, let him look at the world I do;
My knuckles, give them to my mom,
Ask her to use them. Well.
Give my nose to a “professional perfume tester”
I’ve always believed I’ve had a flair for fragrance ;
Don’t give away my journal though,
Pencils, stick notes, fountain pens;
I’d always wanted to save them for my daughter.
Do not donate my hair either,
Instead, burn it
I’ve always wanted to know what burnt hair looks like;
Now that I’ll be dead, I might as well satisfy my whim.
Nails and weapons to a victim
My collar bone to an anorexic;
My heart,
Crush it already.

Important-ish facts?

 

I’m 21,

I love my little brother,

I always write in first person;

I’m 5 feet 7 inches full of insecurity, I’ve always felt huge until I met a 5 feet 11 inch epitome of grace and poise;

Since then, I’ve been feeling too small.

I fall in love too easily, I don’t fall out of it;

I pretend to not like love poetry.

I walk with darkness dripping from my shoulders, you’ll see ghosts brighter than my soul.

I hate my body, so much I turn all the mirrors around.

I feel a lot

And by feel I mean eat.

I have a driver’s licence but I don’t know how to drive,

My faith in God died with my grandpa.

I’m the daughter of a man who believes a woman’s place

Is in the kitchen,

My mother is a victim, she chooses to be.

Like every girl on the planet, I hate shaving my legs,

I only paint the nails of my left hand because that’s convenient,

I make bad decisions.

I write a lot of suicide notes, never committing one;

I have too many fears,

I don’t want to end up in a psych ward.

I avoid social events unless I have company,

Somedays I skip brushing my teeth at night,

Some mornings, I have breakfast before I brush my teeth because I just brushed last night.

I think shampoo is a funny word

I have 32 teeth, my mom is 45 and has 29;

I take pride in the fact, she tells me I have grown up too fast.

A lot of my poetry is a reflection of what I read,

I love collecting postcards,

I’m desperate to be understood.

I like to think I have pretty hands. I tell people that people tell me I have pretty hands;

I don’t tell them that by people I mean my grandma.

My grandma told me, “You are raised to be a good girl.”

I try hard to contain the rebel inside me,

I try hard to hide my blood smeared knuckles.

I like to believe, “Gender is something you choose to identify yourself with.”

I call myself a feminist and by that I mean I believe in equal rights for all.

I go to movies for popcorn,

I am my villain,

I am my hero.