How come my thoughts were so deep?
That you'll slide a ring on my finger when I'm deep asleep,
That you'll be waiting at the door when I'll be late to leave,
That I'll be safe and sound while being in your keep.
How come my thoughts were so calm?
That you're there when I need to hold your arm,
That I can scribble carelessly in your palm,
That our mornings are beautiful beneath a blanket so warm.
How come my thoughts were so blithe?
That you'll never make me worry about any plight,
That you'll take me to the mountains to watch the starry night,
That even with the world against, I'll always find you by my side.
But now,
How come my thoughts are so agile?
That the love between us is like a thread so fragile,
That the cracks in our bond is covered with vinyl,
That now, this connection to you feels senile.
How come my thoughts are so intense?
That your care for me seems like a pretence,
That I feel indifferent about your existence,
That we are ready to erase the remaining romance.
How come my thoughts are so anxious?
That for you, thinking about me is tedious,
That for me, you're nothing but obnoxious,
That for us, this relation is no more precious.-
Cuz your lovers change
Like the course of wind in monsoon
And I, like the sailor of an abandoned ship,
Suffer in my dilapidated cabin.-
When I started spending nights,
Completing year-old incomplete poems,
I realized, mediocrity creeps inside you
Like a vicious festering wound.
You try to prevent the wound from festering further,
You apply ointments in the form of fancy words and desperate analogies,
But in the process, all you care about
Is that the wound should not hamper your appearance.
You don't care if it's rooted deep down,
Rotting your flesh, weakening your bones.
As long as the external skin is presentable,
You think the wound is healed.
But in reality, everything the wound needs,
Is your attention.
Like a caring mother awake all night,
To tend her child with high fever.
The wound can't be cured by one-time bandages,
It needs to be plastered every night.
And that's how, gradually,
The festering wound gives up it's atrocity,
And your flesh, and bones, and skin,
Regain their strength and beauty.-
The heart needs reason to cry
It can't bear happiness.
For heart, happiness is like an over salty dish,
A dash of lemon in the form of tear jerkers are necessary for it.
The heart is like a prism,
It needs sunlight to reflect the vibgyor.
It doesn't deserve to stay in a damp place.
Like prism, it needs to be handled with care.
The heart is like monsoon,
Sometimes it is pleasing to witness its tiny drops of glory,
Sometimes it clouds one's decision-making,
Sometimes it violently floods the reason behind existence.
Your heart deserves your affinity
It has been through enough.
You are not faint-hearted if you care about it's fragility,
Allow your heart to beat, and sing its symphony.-
Your heartbeats demand to be heard,
By someone who could make it race...
For all the good reasons.-
Maybe in a parallel universe
Our fingers aren't reluctant to intertwine.
Eyes don't dodge;
Smile still exists
For each other.
Lips still quiver when you go down,
Eyes still water when you leave town
In that parallel universe.
Where winters aren't as cold
And summers go back to where it was
Three years ago.
Maybe there do exist a parallel universe
Where my fragrance is still your opium,
And your heartbeat, my lullaby.-
Pitch black now, this sinking soul
Annihilated the remaining crumbs of hope.
Saturated with the likes of the Lucifer,
Nauseus and appalled.-
Am I woke enough?
I don't believe that all men are trash,
Do I sound sexist?
Am I exemplifying patriarchal dogma,
By saying that pseudo-feminists offend me?
Is it of utmost necessity
That my political opinion should match yours?
Or, what if I am apolitical- is that a sin?
I don't have my picture holding a placard saying " #blacklivesmatter"
I don't go out of my way to endorse pride month on Instagram
My social media descriptions does not highlight my ideologies
Does that make me untrustworthy and vain?
Am I violating my right to freedom by choosing not to smoke?
And is my submissiveness in bed, a disorder?
What exactly are the ground rules of being "woke"?
-Do I sound disgraceful by asking?
If my wokeness does not match with yours,
And you find it offensive,
Are You really woke enough?-
My poetry is dormant.
It does not have a hunch of phonetics
Or any clue about refrains.
It is unaccustomed
To the society's behavioural norms
And rides a motorbike,
Like a girl in blue hair.
It calls itself purple
And fights with those
Referring to it as violet or lilac.
During days, it lies naked on the beach;
sunbathing
During nights, it rubs its nose with the blanket it's wrapping.
My poetry doesn't knock the door of dogma
And walks barefoot in the road of observance.
Sometimes it stumbles upon an old love,
Takes time to get re-organized
And gradually moves on with a sore toe,
To eventually stumble again.
My poetry isn't vulnerable,
Yet it's open to warm hugs.
At times, when soothing music plays behind
It clears it's throat to sing along,
Yet just end up whistling the pensive notes.
Regardless, my poetry chortles
Like songbirds in the sky of mortals
Now and then, it calls itself a Phoenix
Rising from the ash, never to be buried.
The melancholy it so kindly adores,
Has provided it a home of comfort
But now it seeks to fly a little far off
Where the light might be dim,
But there's no place for distraught.-