Poetry

In your eyes

I had known life in cars and stranger houses. In unknown restaurants, amongst filthy men. Men, I called them before I met you.
Men were strong. They were dirty mouthed and smoked ciggaretes while their wives cleaned their ashtrays. They lifted rocks and engines and their hands at every girl who didnt oblige.
But those aernt men, are they? I learnt that a man didnt have to be the epitome of masculinity. Infact, men are nothing like their exterior self. They are weak and afraid. The large stretches of this world scare them too.
I saw this in your eyes when your son was lying on a stiff, lone bed in a hospital you couldn afford to stand in. That night, the clock and your thoughts were too loud to be unheard. And so was your heart.
It wasnt your fault, my sweet. You did not come to me. The first glance was mine and not yours. Or maybe it was the other way round
The first “hi” was mine and not yours. Or maybe it was the other way around too. Destiny was too far from our hands.
But what I know for certain is that my life wasnt mine anymore.I had no control over me. I was sailing a ship over this sea. And this sea was rough, like no mountain ever climbed before. I thought I knew rough but honey what were these six letter before you.
I was enthusiasm, a hard wall, free spirit and mystery novels.
You were peace and uncollected thoughts. A lesser known discovery.

That night from that cold, bitter battlefield of a room your son emerged triumphed. And in your eyes I saw, as they landed on my surrendered corpse, what a true man I had left behind.

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beginner, Poetry

The Lover and the Beauty

Beauty,

That she flaunted around

Laid not in her face,

Or body

Or anything she learnt from a

poster picture.

It laid

Inside the very core of

Her own self.

Her being,

Was much more than steller grades

And 206 bones.

The red lips

Never created love,

The love

Arrived, searching for

A kind heart,

An ocean for eyes

And a treasure of

Deeply hidden stories

In the mouth of a girl

Who spoke hours of silence

To people who wanted

nothing more.

The lover and the beauty 

Never met

For the fate

Had been written

And the knots had been

tied,

And there’s laid, not

In this life.

Poetry

In between coffee sips

In between coffee sips

He’d pause and ponder

Wonder

About all the wonders of his own life

Why am I not at home?

Maybe there isn’t one.

Maybe I destroyed all of it.

Maybe I let her go

Did I? Was it me?

His life was not a tragedy

As hard as he tried

To make it one

His soul wasn’t there anymore

No matter how much

It seemed to be

This can’t be happening.

It couldn’t be true.

She meant nothing to me.

But she did.

Or why would he sit here

Amongst coffee sips

Miserable and sorry

Sharing drinks, thoughts and tears

With a tombstone.

Poetry, Uncategorized

Monsters

Faded marks of existence

occupy this, once upon a time, home.

Walls scrape their edges

as you sit here tearing at your skin.

Your rotten mind holds thoughts

and this house cherishes all its memories.

Dear love, run from these monsters you've come to know

before the hourglass runs out of time to give you.

Continue reading “Monsters”

Poetry

Mystical

We’re lose ends; you and me

conjoining sights over cold coffee

mugs, in areas not a lot can see.

This isn’t the place to be

but the hell in me

adores this no end tyranny

of baseless conversations

and unconscious memorization

of the number of freckles on your left cheek.

Your body, strong yet meek

has learned to seek

shelter

in the smoked tiles of a thirty year old cafe.

 

I know ballet

didn’t work for you.

Blue was my color not yours

And the moon

had been unsparingly mystical

that night.

Yet how is it that nothing

seemed brighter than you

as you danced across the open air stage.

Your moves typical,

yet unpredictable.

dressed traditional

and in your mininmal

efforts into each

strung

of the violin

made me run

out of air to breathe…

 

Slowly, unhurriedly, bit by bit

and then all at once,

I became yours.

Uncategorized

Art as a Form of Escape

This is soooo accuratel

The Politics of Writing

The classic problem of people hiding from their lives and retreating to art has fundamentally changed within the last few years. The typical portrayal was some slightly disillusioned child preferring to read their stories or paint a picture than go to class. This concept is littered throughout popular literature and film, but hardly ever captures the real situation that we are facing. I don’t think any reasonable person would object to a child that wants to spend the majority of their time reading or painting, mostly because we think of this as classical art. The major art forms we see today are radically different and therefore require a different analysis.

To any common observer there are two depictions of modern art. There is the contemporary abstract form of art that we all love making jokes about, where there is always some deep meaning to jumbled up colors and tin sculptures…

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