When I was younger , I was told that there is too much inside me...
That I have feelings where others have bones.
One fine day someone asked me
"Do you choke on memories from time o time?
Do you cry for no reason at all?
Do words feel like hammer in your head
and crack your skull?"
They said"Then you have definately got them."
"Too many feelings! What a shame..."
"Try not to keep them inside or you'll drown! "
I tried to expel my feelings by punching them out of my throat.
Then came the moment where
I had decided to dump all the feelings
that threatned me to live my life normally.
And, I haven't opened my mouth since then.

-

They said I was a stardust and I thought it was a lie.
You see, how could I be something magical
while merely just feeling opposite?
Is stardust a thing?
Nobody ever knows.
Do you become it?
People would whisper in hopes,
as if someone was flying.
As if spreading it among us only for the strong to pick it up.
The weak were stardust,
they didn't just know it yet.
It was merely a metaphor.
Sprinkle it around
and don't forget to leave a trace.

-

I think about you the way birds think about sky
I long for you,
the way summer long for rain to arrive.
I love the way the letters in your name
dance around my mouth.
You are the first thing that I think
when I wake up wishing you were here.
I can't think of my problems anymore,
All I think of is you, a beautiful distraction.
I had a dream that you were mine.
We were dancing together under the moonlight.
All my worry disappeared
and all I saw was you.
I had a dream that you were mine.
And then I woke up.....

-

As they woke me up when September ended.
My happiness knew no bounds,
I was aware of what was coming to our little towns.
Autumn is the name some call it by,
Other whisper the season of fall.
It's time to jump into the pigmented leaves like puddles,
Time to pause, rest and burst the monsoon bubble.
The rushling and cracking
are the symphonies of this phase.
A stage so beautiful,
as if you are living at your grandmother's place.
It's time to shake the branch of maple tree.
Time to take out the brush and paint the last leaf.
It's time to turn those frowns upside down,
And dwell in the shades of yellow and brown.
Autumn is here, asking you to stay and witness it grow!!!

-

Before I am a person, I am an ocean but at very low tide.
The shape of my own body haunts me.
I covered mirrors in my room just to avoid looking at them.
I am bleeding ,
you think I am dripping bad omen just by being.
When I was fifteen , I was afraid.
Now I am nineteen and I am still afraid.
I never learned how to be anything else.
I am running out of love poems to write.
I have not been in love for so long ,
I barely remember what it feels like.
I mean, falling in love has only
ever turned me all the way inside out.
Sometimes, I am so much women that it makes you sick.
Sometimes it swells up and splits out of margins
and stopped being what you asked it to be.
I let myself be messy in the middle.
I mean, I don't owe it to you to make it Pretty at the end.
I never owe it to you to make it Pretty at all.

-

Sometimes I am uglier than the stains on my face.
I hide behind the curtain of clouds darker than my walls.
In a glaze of mirror I see a body I do not recognize...
It's not me,
it's a masked clown,
mocking me.
It has spine on spine,
crossed knees,
whispered secret on my edges.
Paper cuts and soft breaths and
Everything
Everything
that I do not resent.
It's my reflection,
But it's not me .....

-

I wish I never saw the way you looked at me,
like something to treasure.
I wish I was alone in this longing,
then perhaps I could bare being apart.
But as Shakespeare said " I am the one who loved not wisely but too well."
That is why I wanted to have you in my life,
Even if I had to worry about losing you everyday.
I'd sincerely dreamed a future with you,
Even if it breaks my heart
even if it's dream that can't come true.
I love melancholy and everything that crushes my soul,
So I let you crumple my heart like a piece of paper.
My heart was too fragile
so it bleed like sun bleeds every evening,
It is still bleeding...
But the droplet of blood doesn't ruin the floor anymore,
It paints itself together and makes a beautiful poetry.

-

There's a word clogged somewhere in me.
It has all come to halt since the moment I saw you.
All the vowels and consonants put together
aren't sufficient to write how my heart
flutters every time you blink your eyes.
Your eyes, ohhhh your eyes...
Your eyes are Nebula,
so dark that celestial bodies reside in them.
The universe is captured in your black eyes.
The day I saw you ,
I finally knew what it means to stargaze.
My breath are tides to the moon of your heart.
My eyes never hurt from staring at you.
This doesn't make sense but there's something inherently reassuring in your eyes that says,
"Here, Take my hand. I am not gonna hurt you."

-

I lied and said I was fine.
I said I was busy and I was busy,
But in a different way.
I was busy in taking different breaths.
I was busy silencing my irrational thoughts.
I was busy calming my racing heart.
I was busy telling myself I was okay.
Sometimes this is my busy.
When people out there
were busy working on their dreams,
I was locked in my room,
trying to survive that one passing minute.
In a hope that next minute will be better.
I have passed a lifetime
waiting for this good next minute.
I know I am just messing around
pretending to be whole but look at me.
I wonder if somebody stab me
could it hurt more than it already do ?
If you were in the middle of a track and train was coming would you move?
Cause I wouldn't.....

-

I am starting to think I am an outsider
To this world of pomp and pleasure.
None of it is mine to devour.
But God has been kind to me.
He made me meet up with
some good books, awesome burgers and amazing people.
People that actually cared.
People that are angels.
People that I shall forever keep in my heart.
Yes God is kind.
If he has smothered me with tons of mess,
then he has given some pretty amazing cleaners.
Yeah he has been kind.
And I mean to be kind too.
If I could just learn how to tame the mess in my head.
I am too frustrated to cry.
To frustrated to play with words
Or impress the audience .
To frustrated to write with purpose .
And thus, for the first time in the month
For the time since my ever first poem
I write with instinct .
I write with feeling.
I write with thirst.
Because I must.
It's much, much more than hobby.
It's a need.
A need that fulled by the fact that I have
no other way to outlet my emotions.

- Hinal

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