forget-me-not

ribbons of envy
curl around me,
cutting me clean
from everyone,
wrapping me up
till I willingly
wait for you to
untie me.

wilting
bouquet of happiness
dying dying dying-
leave me some sustenance
only to elongate
my suffering-
I will meet my end
without the water too.

 

(A/N: Mouse ear and scorpion grass.
-AWWAW)

 

2326

“So where is the passion when you need it the most?” – Bad Day, Daniel Powter

on edge all the time
and my hands forgot
that they could make miracles
because my eyes got
distracted by your fingers-
I speak of hand-eye coordination
and tell myself
I’m a little out of capacity,
convince myself
that it wasn’t a temporary
hand-stand of an act and
that I’m still on my feet.

unreturned

“Say you’ll be my nightingale” – Nightingale, Demi Lovato

loneliness is
knowing the answers to questions
nobody thinks or cares to ask.

the monologues that never
turn into conversation.

the disfigured lump
in your throat
that rises into crying
on bathroom tiles and pillowcases.

the earrings lying discarded
in the pink charmed box
that are so heavy you never
wear them.

books you borrowed
from others who never
asked for them back.

transcribing
imaginary conversations
into hope.

the words that remain when
you slash and burn away
to meet word limits
and deadlines.

it is the irony of becoming
the cliches you laughed at.


(To Shriya, who, for the record, definitely asked for her copy of The Ocean at the End of the Lane back.)

-awwaw

Hyperbole

my mind is
my preferred
place of residence-
I flit away to it
between moments
of existence,
live there like
I’ve never wanted
to die.

“I was late for this, late for that,
Late for the love of my life
And when I die alone,
When I die alone,
When I die, I’ll be on time”-Cleopatra, The Lumineers

In my rush to respond
Grammar is forgotten,
my spellings are skewed
and if you knew me, you’d know
why I felt the need to
write a poem asking if
you understand
that
in my haste,
I forget that you dictate
the consequences of
my sentences;
that the answers I don’t give
are the ones that give
too much away;
that not being late is not
the same as being there
at the right moment
just as not being cold is not
the same as being warm.

Que Sera

“This is about the self-mutilating circus we have painted ourselves clowns in.”- Pretty, Katie Makkai

On bad days
I wish I looked good.
Brush my hair
so it covers light-catching
sight-catching pinpricks on my skin,
so it falls over my
crease lined neck.

Drag nails over skin to
separate the without
from within.
Create judgement panels
in my head
and wonder if this is whynot.

On bad days
I skim the surface of superficiality
and struggle to stay afloat
of the depths of shallowness.

On bad days
I cannot say
“Does it matter?” when
told I’m pretty.

Over yellow pages

“And when we looked outside,
Couldn’t even see the sky.”- Sleep On The Floor, The Lumineers

writing
is as simple as
hearts beating,
drumming liquid music
through networks
of vulnerability,
breathing life into
temporary spans of spaces,
as simple as the
mechanical thrumming
of hearts running
on hooked wires and
tangled remains.

writing
is recovering
what I’m losing
when I choose to
hold my words back because
I still cannot bring myself
to risk it-
bold and daring, I am not,
and I trust you with my life
but I don’t trust you
not to leave and that has
always mattered more.

writing is rewriting
till I’m so sick of how
I’m feeling
I stop feeling it.

1963

“Everything just takes me back to when you were there.”-When We Were Young, Adele

I’ve been searching everything
we’ve been through
for remaining traces of you.
I found your smile while sitting on
sandy grounds surrounded
by all the people I’m about to leave;
your hair in her words about running away
in the rain from the rain;
the things you said in the blue lines
I’ve coloured into my white shoes;
and your presence in metal boxes
that I miss every morning.

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