#promise

2694 quotes

Promises, my mother said, 
are like a scratched record, 
they skip turns
to play, and
when they do, 
all music subsides, 
and a meaningless concussion
of notes takes place.

I promise. You would hear this poem again and again, till my voice settles in like the sunset that drowns itself in your diary every night; you can still smell the salt from the ocean breeze, but your wounds are still fresh. I have strangled words out of my vocal chords, hoping that the next thing I speak would elicit applause. I have a dying light for my bedroom, and the bed keeps shrinking into my skin every night. My wounds do not heal, I apply all sorts of prayers - they do not heal. Somewhere, a mad poet drinks himself to death, and, his curses swell beyond our opaque eardrums. Somewhere, a lover writes a letter to heaven, like a one-way ticket for a trip too expensive. Somewhere, my mother sings in her sleep – hums – for father’s snore compliments their bizarre melody. Somewhere, my fingers engage themselves in a battle with your hair, they resist my touch, and curl as I clutch them. I try to memorise the way your breath sounds when you succumb to wilful sins. I was told as a child that promises are whispers from God. You are meant to keep them close to your heart. But, these promises have become your sharp features which cut a vein or two, and still stay close to my heart. I keep telling myself that my screams are still an unexplored dimension; how else do I explain your nonchalance - when you are colorblind to my pain, and my pain shoves its flares down my throat. So, here is a poem for you - I would never understand what it means; I would probably not realize why this randomness feels more like home than a shadow embrace. I have read all your books - but, throwing false hopes into the skies, and wishing for rains would never wash away a quarter of my sighs. I recycle some of them in your memories that I carefully tuck away. When you are not looking, I pause, play, repeat some of your voice in a promise of a poem that plays on loop in my head. Promises, my mother said, are like a scratched record, they skip turns to play, and when they do, all music subsides, and a meaningless concussion of notes takes place. Somewhere, a bulb flickers in a ghost town, and my vacant chest heaves unlike other days. I make paper boats from my skin to float down the stream of what resembles my lack of sanity. Somewhere, a mad poet finds his liquor smelling the same as the lover’s ink. Somewhere, my mother pauses her breath to ask her son if he is alright. Somewhere, her son writes a poem that he etches onto the last remnants of his voice. His silence would accompany the absence of his father now; his silence would repeat this poem until it makes sense to the senseless, until it elicits love from the loveless, until it burns hope from the hopeless. I promise. #promise #love #heartbreak #life #yqbaba

9 HOURS AGO