Bharath Nandibhatla   (Landlocked Sailor)
10.1k Followers · 375 Following

A tipsy pen hungover on your gypsy soul, I shall write to you 💫
Joined 9 October 2016


A tipsy pen hungover on your gypsy soul, I shall write to you 💫
Joined 9 October 2016
18 APR 2023 AT 0:25

Art is never the
blatant truth,
but a version of it
that you relate to.
Mistake me not,
art is not always
about the truth.
Art is the truth.
Art can lie,
but honestly so.

If my poems
can lie about
my insanity,
if the chaos in them
can reek of order,
then art can surely lie.

Art isn't a quest
towards what's true.
Rather, towards
what's you!

-


17 APR 2023 AT 0:40

Time is often written about
as an element in motion,
lacking all emotion,
unstoppable and cold.
Or a few poets,
compare it to a cage
you hold on to,
like a dog holds
onto its leash.

Time is all of that and none.
Indifferent not, but different.
Every passing second,
an eternity to some,
fleeting to others.

A universal entity, Time.
A relative perception, yet.
If Time's cold, how does it heal you?
If Time's kind, how does it kill you?

Time seems a cage
when you cage it
to your perception.

-


16 APR 2023 AT 0:16

Beyond the city,
there's a graveyard
for the homeless.
Their graves, nameless.
Bury me there.
Name not my grave.

When you visit
my grave,
I don't wish
you know
which is mine.

That way, when
you want to come
talk to me at my grave,
one of my dead
brothers or sisters
would chance upon
a conversation,
those they might
have been deprived of,
when alive.

-


14 APR 2023 AT 23:36

The distance between
you and me,
much longer
than that between
me and you.

Thanks to you,
I now know distance
between people,
unlike that between points,
is not uni-dimensional.

Who knew distance
needs an equilibrium too?

-


13 APR 2023 AT 0:04

Have you heard of Synesthesia?
A condition where you can
hear colours, taste shapes,
feel sounds, you-get-the-drill.

If I were a synesthete,
I wonder if poems
would hit me differently?
Better yet, would I write
them differently?

What's the colour
of this poem?
Is it the same as
the colour of chaos?

What do these
words smell like?
That of a familiar stranger?

What does poetry taste like?
Wait, what's its aftertaste like?

Does closure have a sound?
Is it a thud? Or a rustle?

-


11 APR 2023 AT 23:41

The wind does not
blow me away,
but the paradox
that it is, does.

Winds always carry,
never contain.
They carry a moist kiss
from across the sea,
without containing
an ounce of love?

Winds, silent unless
they hit an obstacle.
Mighty strong winds,
but silent within,
only to lose it all
when intercepted?

Winds from Sahara
nourish the Amazon.
A desert mothers a rainforest
while the winds father it?

Winds are fleeting,
yet eternal?
When turbulent,
they wreak havoc.
But when still,
can end all life?

I write to unwind.
Can't un-wind today.

-


7 APR 2023 AT 23:50

Within a seashell,
where does the sea end
and the shore begin?

Within my shell,
where do the voices
in my head end
and I begin?

Within our life together,
where do you end
and I begin?

Within this poem,
where does ambiguity end
and poetry begin?

-


6 APR 2023 AT 23:24

Poetry, quite often,
can be a mirror,
or a canvas.
What you make of it
is what matters.

When I do try
to disrupt that,
leaving no room
for you to reflect
or paint upon,
in a greedy attempt
to fill it with my soul
and not yours,
you'll find my poem
lacking a soul.

You see,
a poem lacks
a soul
when it's got
no room for
yours.

-


5 APR 2023 AT 23:29

I'm called a masterpiece,
a masterful blend of strokes.

You see the painting now.
I wish you were around
when I was a canvas.
Or even earlier,
when I was a carcass.

This painting you see,
isn't me at my lively best.

I was dead, as a carcass.
I was most alive, as a canvas.
I'm only undead as a painting.

Undoing, not doing,
brings life into me.
Undo this poem,
for I know not how,
and let it live.

-


4 APR 2023 AT 23:30

Lying on lawn grass,
to lull me to sleep.
But meself, crass,
and numb, unable to weep.

The want to cry
ain't the want to weep.
Maybe, just the want
to know you still feel.
I feel still.
But do I still feel?

As I lie here, between
day and night, spacious lawn...
My mind, sore. My hopes, lean.
My soul, tired. Yet, not a yawn.

Beyond the lawn,
crossroads.
You and I,
star-crossed souls.

The crossroads are terribly dark and deep,
but I have to take a leap,
and miles to go before I weep,
and smiles to go before I weep.

-


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