A diary on you

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To Love

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This time,
If the knot does not tie,
After stringing sixty-five of sixty-six pebbles,
Tell me prior,
To not bead it with an aching arm,
And an aching eye.
Tell me prior,
To not embrace and encapsulate you,
With an eye tired of beading,
If you are going to open the window,
And run afar.
At least this time,
I hope cosmos relieve me of the evil suffering,
For here I am weeping,
Hopelessly and relentlessly.

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The hope I hold onto,
Shines through dawn,
After a tumultuous fight with withering ropes .

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When the sun felt less pretty that day,
I saw you through an open eyed dream,
It was you embracing me,
With pats all over my head,
And kisses on my forehead,
I can breathe your odour,
The one which gives me hope,
Through my open eyed dream.
Is it since I am too tender to embrace ,
The sadness within?
I wonder breathing you in,
Consumed tenderly by your aura.

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Not in the green veins,
That dominate your iron hands,
Nor in your voice,
That people hear to follow.
I wonder,
What's more powerful than a heart,
Admitting it's vulnerability?

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Everytime loneliness peaks,
You-
The imagenary you,
Knocks at my heart,
Like a home,
That we know will not exist.

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She's so full of herself.
- Sarga

She gets mystified with
Stars that sparkle in lullaby,
Wondering if they are speaking to her.
Yes,
She's so full of herself,
She dances poetry,
When rain sings with the clays
ahead her home.
Yes,
She's too full of herself
As she cries to melancholy of unprivileged.
And yes,
She's too full of herself,
With the pillow that soaks rain,
And upfront converses they had to bear.
If not full of herself,
Shall her be.

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My mother
Who only had an option,
To succumb to patriarchy.
And now I see you ,
Insensitive to it's weak arms.
Why? I ask,
While I see you grope her,
Before her blindfold liberate.

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Painting wrong on her canvas.

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