You will heal…

Glass boxes don’t sing lore to the warriors of freedom when the skies fall and the watersPSX_20200424_213616 rise. But, skies don’t fall and waters don’t rise in vain; they sob in vile.

There are a number of things that may conjure disdain into this world, but no other blade yearns to be struck with thunder as much as the one sitting on the hilt of heartbreaks.

Sword hilts, I believe, are haunted; rather cursed.

They hold power, enough to crown a head; they hold sin, enough to behead a crown. The hands which happen to hold these swords may either bring freedom or threaten it; regardless, blood is shed and scars are left to taint hearts for ages to come.

Ages; since ages, men have been driven to worship their own strength in the name of blind pride;
and pride, though may seem like a forbidden ally to the sung masters, is nothing but a thirst;

A deep unquenchable thirst sitting at the edge of our tongues, making us blurt rage and breathe revenge.
Pride is nothing but a cry for help; a veil hiding our scars ever so elegantly.

But veils fall and masks rot in due time; what is hidden can’t be hidden forever.

One day, you will see, you will see for yourself.
When the skin on your bones will feel too plastic to be alive and the heart in your chest will feel too alive to have gone dead.
When what’s whole will seem broken and what’s broken will feel safe.

Then.. you will hear, you will hear for yourself.

You will hear how beautifully you may have chanted the prayers of freedom if you wouldn’t have dug graves for your own tongue.
You will smile at your flaws and you will kiss your own scars.
You will sing in the chorus of joy and pray for peace in the choir of blatant hatred.

And when that day arrives… You will heal!

Hiraeth

Water flows through creeks and crevices of withered mountains when it rains over their pride ridden heads.
Heads, as they say, are meant to be held high; necks, as we have seen, break under the curse of ego sometimes.

In the end, if you don’t step over this grandeur and pay courtesy to love, a weak neck will make you fall into it someday.

Such are the tales of love gone rogue.
Such are the tales of life.


In life, we wander; we walk through the fields, we smile through the hearts, we fly through the skies and we swim through the waters; regardless, we wander.

Our skin hides behind rags; we sleep on dirt, under the dirt. We wash faces with the stream of our own tears, we feed on abandoned hearts and we gather memories; hand-picking charms and feathers on our way to nowhere.


Nowhere… is a place. An empty void, hanging somewhere in the middle of the air. It has walls, they are dark; so dark that they surpass the physical possibilities of darkness; so dark that they are mere shadows.

Nowhere… is a halt. A refuge away from the dank fluidity into the deserted narrow lanes of random oil strokes; the strokes are sharp; they stab sometimes and you may fall, but you will fall into nothing but comfort.


Journeys are like stories, and your footprints are like splattered ink, left behind by a broken nib. The writer, though, is fate; and it’s no less of a clown who knows magic.

You are the reader, more of a dazed one. You follow the plot, and by each passing metaphor, you age.
But… it is not before the evening that you begin to see your clown’s folly.

It is not before the evening that you have read these metaphors well enough to spot when they repeat.

By the night, though, all of it makes sense to you-
You were going around in circles.

You were running around like a lost child, looking for her mother.
Alas, you would only find yourself at the same place at the end of each hour.

Why?
Because… that place, in the middle of this huge endless crowd, was the last place where this world felt safe to you.

That was the last time when you held your mother’s hand, and each time you get closer to this tiny piece of land, the feeling of ‘being home’ washes all your exhaustion away.

But… Do you ever reach home?
No!

Hiraeth brings along a sense of unquenchable insanity, and you have no choice but to drown!

“Hiraeth- a homesickness for a home to which you cannot return, a home which maybe never was; the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past”

my childhood speaks in these scars.

Trigger Warning: Child Abuse

A few days ago,
My lover had my hands in his;
I loved the way his eyes sparkled
And his lips curved into a stunning smile,
As he brushed his fingers
At the back of my palm


There we were,
Living the blissful moments of
Our once-in-a-lifetime romance;
But then,
All my metaphors came down crashing
Falling into a white scar,
Leaving my poetry naked


He dug deep into my eyes,
With an unsaid question
And all my charm
Went splurging into tears

I was seven
When one of my uncles
Burnt my hand
With a scorching hot iron


I still remember how it felt
Having my skin stuck to that piece of metal,
And then,
Later
How it broke my heart
Into a thousand tiny pieces,
Looking at those tiny boils


I froze;
Didn’t scream at all;
Not even a cry for help

It felt like all my sentences
Had strangled my tongue
Into a paralyzed piece of flesh;
Unworthy
And too coward
To move


I looked at my hand,
And then I looked back at him;
With eyes as empty as a black hole


He was smiling;
A very crooked smile;
One that sent chills down my spine


I took a few steps back
And ran out of the room
Only to be followed by a mocking smirk

I have it all
Still alive
Still breathing in my head


Just as vivid
As a thing of yesterday;
Just as stale
As rotten bread

I whimpered as I cried
Coiled up in my lover’s arms;
All I wanted
Was for him to hear
My childhood speaking in those scars //

Cages…

Our history has known cages;
Of all kinds and characters.
The one with bars of gold
And the others with floors of dirt.
The ones which held the innocent
And the others which freed the ghouls.

But not very often,
When you walk through the pages
Of your own history,
You land up
Imprisoned.

Imprisoned behind the walls of
Some doomed silvered glasses.
Imprisoned to a cage of mirrors.
Imprisoned to yourself.

Up until this moment,
The clock hands never echoed louder.
Up until this moment,
The questions never sent shivers down your spine.

The clock now,
Is running on a timeless retreat.
The questions now,
Come for YOU,
From yourself.

Who are you?
Why are you?
Where are you?

You run to the mirrors,
Banging at each one of them,
Hoping to
Either knock the glass out
Or make your hand bleed the answers.

None happens.
Nothing shatters.
Nothing bleeds.
All fall silent.

Then,
You begin
To hear
Clearer than ever.

You begin to hear your soul hum,
As faint as a whisper,
But as clear as a woman weeping
On a dark moonless night.

Your soul hums to you,
How
You
Are a handful of Earth;
Fertile, magical,
Yet forgotten.

You
Are a waterfall;
You fall down
The damp rotten roof
Of an old cave
Standing right in the middle of an enchanted forest.

You
Are a gentle breeze,
Flowing through an Orphan’s hair
On nights when he misses having a Mother.

You
Are a ball of fire
Burning inside an old lantern
Lighting up someone’s dark world.

You
Are the limit of the skies;
Unknown!

You are a poem
With all the five elements
Entwined in your heart.

So,
When next time
The world asks you
To introduce yourself
Tell them;
“I am life”

i have felt alone.

Often, in life, you spend your lazy Sunday afternoons staring at the ceiling and missing… Someone. Something. Everything.
These are the times when you can’t help but fall down an abyss of old and dusted picture albums. The pages turn so fast that this show seems like an unending retro movie titled, “All the times you failed to live a smile”.
Scenes are hazy, you can’t remember those faces anymore, and the dialogues sound like a violin instrumental being played on a grotesque gramophone.
What’s not strange though, is the fact that you get to waltz down an alley of broken photo frames every time the violin begins to play.
And, why is that not strange?
Because that’s your home.
Because, out of every and any name given to a home, ‘strange’ has never been one.
That alley, oh dear… that’s your home. You moved out of your dreamy castle a few years ago.
There, the linens used to rub against your skin; they used to peel it off like a coarse sandpaper, and you have never liked to keep your bones naked.
There, you felt alone.
As alone as a smiling corpse lying in its coffin, deep under the Earth, waiting for death gods to take it away.
You felt alone, and anxious… without the gloom.
So, you ran down the stairs and moved into this alley.
Here, the ceilings weep,
and you wander around in a drenched silk gown;
But, you are at peace,
and never alone.
But… Is that the way to be?

pause.

Your song

is a
choir of
rushed strokes
of black
hollow
paint
on a
white
anxious
canvas
dangling free.
Free.
From a
lone nail
on a
brick wall
standing old
behind
the house
of your
dreams.

You bury
the dead
behind it.
They rise
up
as
demons
on starry nights
and
throw
an embrace
around your
weary
tense
bruised
neck.

You love them.
They love you.
They love you
for giving them
a paradise
to stay at.

Your heart
was once
heaven
to the lost.
Now,
it’s home to them.
‘Cause
the lost
never knew
a comfort
half as dark
as your
darkness.

Your darkness
is
their refuge.
Away.
Away from
the light and luster.

‘Cause
the lost
got lost
in their quest
away
from the light.
And,
that light
chased them back
every morning
until
they found
your heart.

Now,
they won’t
leave.

And you,
you will
have to
make peace
with these
new demons of yours.

Will you?
If you,
then
you too,
go lost.

Would you
like that?
If not…
then,

pause.

Dear Anxiety,

I am drowning.

There is a fire in my head and it’s stinging at the back of my throat. My feet weigh a hundred pounds and I am scared to take another step. My heart is dancing to its own rhythm, but, the beats are heavy metal now; I killed the symphony for a few cheap tears. 

Air feels like poisoned water and the world feels like a bedless ocean. 

I am struggling.

Stretching my hands out. Hitting them against nothing. Trying to fetch a grip of the unknown.

I can’t see.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t feel.

But I… I can hear… I can hear you. Standing in a corner of this dingy dark room, smirking at my pale shivering body and laughing at the void in my eyes. 

There is only so much a heart can take.
You stab it once. It weeps.
Once again and it screams.
Thrice and it falls silent.

Silent. Too silent for silence to hear itself hum.
Humming to the choir of truths and lies.
Humming to the cords of your broken guitar.
Humming to you.

Do you know what follows dead silence?
A roaring storm.

And before you know it, you find yourself running.
Around the room.
Pulling curtains down.
Breaking windows.

You rage up. You let the flames out. You begin to count. You begin to sing.
You begin to hug yourself, feeling hopeless out of sheer pain and then harm yourself to cause more of it.

Dear Anxiety,
You are funny!

You heal, You lie; You tear me up and you fly… away… until next time when my peace begins to threaten you and my giggles sound like war cries.

You are a demon. You are my demon. You are the devil I love to play with. You meet me behind the fallen curtains of well-lit stages. You denounce shame on my courage and take pride in my anger. 

You are a champion. So far, in the past few years, you have never lost a battle against me.
You win.

And I… I let you. I let you walk away with victory as if I never aimed at it.
And the worst part? That is the truth!
It is!

Because, dear anxiety,

I am drowning… and it comes with a strange delusional peace.

With fear,
G.

 

Burns and Ashes

Black and burnt hearts fall down to ashes when you aim at them with the cupid’s arrow. If that doesn’t scare you enough against love stories gone rogue, then you may want to grab a glimpse of the poison spat rose pressed in the old and worn pages of a happy love story.

Heartbreaks are like untimely deaths, and the tears that follow are like watered flames of a rain-drenched funeral. Eulogies die under muffled heavy breaths and you sob till the next mourning sun dawns over your moonless night. You face that sun, smelling like stale giggles and sour hugs.

A curse too harsh for the lover inside you!

What happens next? That lover elopes.

You stop seeing the world through pink stained glasses. Your whites don’t preach out peace now, instead, they scream indifference. The yellows don’t sing for joy, but they lie, down and dusted.

Your world is no longer a castle made up of stardust and crystals. Your slippers aren’t glass and you don’t walk around, crowned with flowers. 

Now, you reign the voids and your fires cast shadows of their own. You find comfort in darkness and the Sun burns at your skin.

You sleep to howling wolves and wake up to fighting Ravens. But, regardless, you live; you learn to…

You learn to live, adorning ashes and romancing burnt ruins. You are a lone poet, except, now you aren’t in love with ‘love’.

You bleed in the darkest shade of blue and weave out gospels. But, no matter which storm pulls you into its eye, you write… and you live!

When Jasmines begin to smell like Lavenders!

Love stories! They are like broken glass beads thrown ashore to the dead sea! You, as a lone bystander, may happen to step upon the sharp ones every other fortnight! Then, you may bleed a little and your lips may sin to mumble a soft curse at their beauty. When that happens… don’t fret away from taking another step!

In every love story, there comes a time when jasmines begin to smell like lavenders. That’s when you must pick your tears up and run!

Why? 

Because nothing heals better than the sweet nectar which oozes out of those flowers… and healing, my friend, is a scary business!

Here’s a funny thing about scars! They walk the face of this planet with a tiny bag of peace hanging down their shoulders. When you happen to bump into one, the thorns may sting you for a second… but, sooner than you realise, you will find yourself swooning to the tunes of their tranquillising sorcery.

Having said that, love is a nightmare to the broken and boozed. It is the kind of torment which makes wolves howl on dark and lonely nights.

The worst part?

Once you trip and fall on the side of this road, you won’t wake up before dawn. Your eyes will be left yearning for the dark.

Befoolery, in our world, is a celebrated virtue… and love has always been a fool’s master trick!

So, for once, let yourself fall for the trickery and gasp at the magic. For once, make your jasmines smell like lavenders! Healing must be a scary business, but since when have the broken started shying away from fear, huh?

Dear ‘home’

We live in a lost world.
We are wanderers, miserable vagabonds!
We feed on anger and breathe out fires, then cry at the sight of burnt cities and homeless hearts.
We gulp tears and our eyes bleed, then we frown at the sight of spilled gore.
We smoke ashes, bathe in swamps, wear mere shreds of envy and then flaunt our prides.
Such is our foolery.
And, in a world as lost as ours, we dream of love and preach its beauty.
Sing it to glory.
I believe; hiding behind our quest for bliss, we are at strife for a ‘home’.
Enraged by our solitude and grieving our nostalgia…we are demons!
We are demons, hiding behind a charming bouquet of scented paper roses.
We hawk those flowers and break inside the deserted hearts of our patrons, vowing to fill their void with nectar and honey.
But….
We are hungry bandits!
We rob them off their peace and leave them to suffer in the torment of heartbreak.
Dear ‘home’,
I know; I know that you are lost in this pack of howling misers and you fear the day when you will have to wake up… to the nightmare of a shattered heart and an empty soul.
I know; I know that you want to find your ‘home’, as much as I want to find you.
But… what assures you, that our greed won’t take over and we won’t abandon each other, as soon as we catch our breathes and the sores on our feet stop oozing blood?
What assures you, that our ‘forever’ won’t be just another voice in the piercing cacophony of lies and that our ‘happy ending’ will not abide to the taunting title of ‘crippled rainbows and fantasies’?
Dear ‘home’,
Don’t you fret the horror… It may be lying at the end of our quests?
Isn’t ‘homelessness’ a bliss, when the walls of your abode chase the daylight out of your life?
With love,
From the ‘home’ that you may never find.