Cipun Mishra

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Cipun Mishra (Cipun Mishra)

If hearts were landmines, you would be tripping one right now.

www.cipunmishra.wordpress.com

Top tags: yqbaba life love dreams heartbreak
We make-do with tatters of feelings because this is a world of makeshift humans and temporary emotions.

(Full poem is in the caption)

Bargains. I have bargained words for the dreams of my loved ones. For as long as I can remember, I have bargained dreams for the smiles of my loved ones. I come from a town you cannot quite find on a map. I write lullabies for my demons to fall asleep, so I can be alone for once. I have bargained smiles for the aspirations of grandfathers. We did not have separate rooms to separate emotions, hiding shards of broken hearts behind closed doors. I grew up in a house with more people than walls. We did not have separate rooms to separate promises that we made to ourselves or to our loved ones. Promises often trip into shallow ponds of reticence. And, between dreams that we grew up to see and dreams that we were born for, we became human sacrifices, living and dying all the same. We make-do with tatters of feelings because this world belongs to makeshift humans and temporary emotions. And, I have bargained some death for the poverty that blankets me, for the life of my loved ones. #yqbaba #YQBaba #life #love #story

5 JUN AT 19:43

With closed arms and vacuum chest,
I am grasping you
a little too close.
These deserts have wound up
as recollections of you and me.
Some erosions, some corrosion-
we look at each other with eyes 
that meander our lips.
There are no words.
There are no words.
In a room
full of dreams,
there barely is breathing space.
Our hands sway
in tempers that rise and collapse
like tornados;
they leave behind scars
and ruins of love letters
that now lay scattered.
I have forgotten to breathe
for a while now.
It has been raining
for a while now.
There are no words
when lips become addresses
that seem lost,
this river knows no bounds.
It tears its way through
burning corpses of memories
in these sand dunes
of deserts
that our throats become.
With closed arms and vacuum chest,
I am letting you slip away
a little too often.

Sand dunes.

1 JUN AT 19:47

She gifts me thunderstorms
with words that spill
from ashes of who we used to be.
These empty palms can beg
for only so long,
when you dissolve maps on them
with sweat and soil.
In the graveyards of our memories,
I am tearing postcards
of crimson ink.
You often found comfort in 
the ruins of places we had been,
of people we had become.

She gifts me thunderstorms
with makeshift dams
that hug the river
like a stranger,
only to be overrun.
Our existence is drowning now;
so much darkness
in eyes that have forgotten to sleep.

She gifts me thunderstorms
with broken promises
and blood-filled jaws
that carry them.
This mouth knows now 
to be complete;
with dark clouds of words
and rains that wash away
painted tongues of yesterday's lies.

Thunderstorms.

31 MAY AT 20:44

Roads are spilling off your memories
like paint from the brush,
with which you smear moments
across my bare chest.
I am infinite in this moment,
like arms that stretch for lovers lost,
like imploding worlds inside explosive words.

(Full poem is in the caption.)

Her face twists into a smile, probably patrons of mercy are rolling in their graves. for crimes that I have committed; for every sin that I have lived through, there are very few gestures that save. Like sentences hang from the judge’s gable, her lips part without many words. I know there is escape, but how often do we walk into gardens with no intentions of plucking dreams from the wombs of a bud? I know there is escape, but how often do we step off the ledge with no intentions of being diminished to memory on the charcoal in pages? Her face twists into a smile, probably there are muttered prayers too sinful for sinners to sin. we whisper our prayers into each other’s ears like dirty gospels of bibles unknown. roads are spilling off your memories like paint from the brush with which you smear moments across my bare chest. I am infinite in this moment, like arms that stretch for lovers lost, like imploding worlds inside explosive words.

25 MAY AT 21:22

God, you choose to be funny tonight.
For my prayers knock on blankets
pulled from beneath cold feet,
you choose to mock me tonight.
I have had words in my mouth,
like broken jaws
every time my prayers were not enough
to save me.

(Full poem is in the caption. Feedback would be appreciated.)

Funny God. God, you choose to be funny tonight. For my prayers knock on blankets pulled from beneath cold feet, you choose to mock me tonight. I have had words in my mouth, like broken jaws every time my prayers were not enough to save me. These words like vomit are disgusting, but I have gulped them down. See, how fucking strong I am. And, every time, I throw up, poetry forms mosaics on the floor with punches you pulled and my defenses that failed. There is not enough light in the world to brighten lost souls. Like puppies who can’t return home, like poppies that crush themselves into poison, like trophies that melt their aluminum into your skin, see, you are a tinman now. Much like the robot your maid was, every time she came home from her house to wipe the floor with tears and disinfectant and a silly you asked- “hey, why are you crying?” and, she said – “because God is making up for the times I have laughed” You have often wondered if her bruises on the neck and the bruises on your recently married sister’s arms were the same. pain knows no color, no distinction. there is not enough light in the world to brighten lost souls. So, God, you choose to be funny tonight. I am laughing, I am aware. So, when there are broken tiles on the floor and the wallpaper is peeling off the walls, I would build you a memorial with a grave. I would put your cross across the same. You see, you are funny, God, but you know no address. I would put your cross as a joke, because you always like to be funny, and you’d find a homing beacon to detonate my nuclear heart. #yourquote #yqbaba #god #joke

23 MAY AT 18:07

We all are punctuations hiding behind emoticons.

Cloak and dagger.

5 MAY AT 17:06

It is crippling
to be so afraid
of sitting a few metres away
from a sea that winds at your feet.
I am afraid to get up
and walk up to the waves.
I do not know how to stop.
I would not know how to.
You look at the fabric of time
twisting itself through
Iterations of itself.
You let the tides turn,
much like waves crave for the moon,
like the wolf howls for the moon.
You are sitting a few metres away.
You can pine all you want.
The shortest of journeys
would become the longest,
you are petrified.

Fear.

29 APR AT 18:39

I wonder
if I am the only one.
Do you sit in the backseat
constantly imagining
how your car would crash,
and everybody would survive,
but you?
Do you let the sea wash your feet
and walk into it,
without any intentions
of stopping?
You dream up
scenarios where you drown.
It is almost funny
that this thought makes you smile;
you are smiling after an entire week now.
Do you stand on top of a hill,
look at the vast expense of flora
a hundred feet below,
and keep wondering if a gush of wind
would be so kind.
You were never humble,
you were never sweet.
Your parents admit
that they pray 
you were never born.
The stories on your skin
are just foolish attempts 
at setting bookmarks 
in a book that is burning from every corner.
I wonder
if I am the only one
who stand with open arms,
embracing death
like a lover you have not met for a long time now.

Old friend.

29 APR AT 16:43