Nothing prepares you for the ache of mourning. I am mourning my idealism today, trying to hold onto the ideals in a quicksand hug while reality grapples me like an inseparable birthmark. The trajectory of growing up is learning how to make a coral museum of grief inside the wormholes of your heart. Unable to build a Lego bridge where your idealism kisses your reality, unable to write yourself a soft epilogue.
Before we were trapped, we had nursery rhymes in our smiles and technicolor cartoons in our eyes. Marigold cheeks engraved with red constellations carved by English teachers and moon craters for dimples. Before we binge ate cynicism cookies, there were slices of sunbeams for breakfast and playdoh dreams in our hearts.
They didn’t tell me growing up was nurturing houseplants of responsibilities and often failing to water them because you are binge-watching a DVD of nostalgia on nights when loneliness sublets you it’s house. They didn’t tell me growing up was walking in circles in my room past midnight trying to remember the face of my imaginary friend. Dimming in my mind in slow motion like the night mode of my phone.
On days, my heart is a wreckage of Hiroshima and my pulse, echoes the final goodbyes of torpedo bombers in the battle of Midway. I cannot speak because my mouth is clogged, as if someone has force-fed me shards of the broken wind chimes instead of Cheetos for dinner.Continue reading “Refillable Glasses and Empty Spaces: Prose Poetry”
Did it hurt when you fell from Heaven?
Tonight, the sky is the graffiti of stars, the salsa dancers seducing the manifolds of space,
Air, full of exclamation marks like conspiracy theories discussed in neon alleys over pawnshop cigarettes.
You see her, polaroids of wonders of the world in her eyes, casting long shadows on your wall visits you once in a while,
A fallen angel with a crooked halo and an ancient forest for a smile.
But tell me, Why do you Love?
4.5 billion years from now, the Milky Way and Andromeda will intertwine in the Newtonian snow globe of fates,
The ‘survival of the fittest’ humanity shrinks into indivisibility, smolders into supernovas in outer space.
This four-letter word will exist, an irrational number in binary codes of continuity,
Because you and I are matter, uninterrupted and indestructible beyond infinity.
Metaphors and Paradoxes
She was thirteen when she became the artist of imagery, metaphors and Surrealism,
Her exercise books filled with irregular verbs and Vincent Van Gogh’s Impressionism. Continue reading “Metaphors and Paradoxes: Poetry”
The Epilogue of Wanderlust
Wanderlust etched in the calcium of her bones,
Sprinkled like the dust of pixies in the carbon of her soul.
Searching for a pair of arms and a soft smile to call them her home,
On the streets whose names she can’t pronounce where directions are written in a foreign dialect, she rummaged and roam.
Rummaged and Roam.
Every morning, awoken by the silent screams of her soul,
Like the convulsing tides of the misty ocean reaching on the shore.
Carbon soaked nightmares found tangled in her dreamcatcher,
Heart <a href="http://Toxic“>intoxicated with the fatal poisons of broken matters.
Daughters of History
History is overcrowded with women who were harmonies,
Cadencing with the delicacy of vulnerable melodies.
Your ancestors were crystal chandeliers and exquisite geodes,
Fragility dribbling from edges and nodes.
She camouflaged under the spiral of books,
Caging the brutality and inequality in the lines of a notebook.
She told, girls possess the cells of storm and bravery,
Undefined valour, immeasurable kindness was their geometry.
With Love from Your Soul
Silent wishes of wrapping my arms around your existence,
Erasing your kerosene sodden, trauma laced reminiscence.
Hidden under the charcoal hallways in your mind,
Leaving behind, mosaics of joy and abstracts of sunshine.
Your Silhouette Soul
Like a trivial origami, society folded your soul,
Bending the gigantic galaxies inside you into crumpled rolls.
Questioning your weight, size of clothes and your ambitions,
Creasing your passions into edges of limits and restrictions.
You’re not Poetry
You do not crescendo with mesmerising rhymes and flamboyant words,
Your feelings are too enchanting to be squeezed into metaphors.
Your expressions are meaning to words that nobody learnt to define,
You’re not always motivating, sad, happy or benign.
You’re not poetry.
Lessons from Fairy Tales
Since a young age, ambitions had been the disarray shadows of her heart,
Success was possible despite the conspiracies of stepmothers and witches with black arts.
The little girl could be anything she wanted to be.
Told the dauntless and enchantress, Barbie. Continue reading “Lessons from Fairy Tales: Poetry”
Elegance isn’t Beautiful
Her elegance isn’t about grace and etiquettes,
Not about exquisite hairdressing and braids.
Her messy hair are the silhouettes of her untamed soul,
Wilderness ablaze like the embers of a charcoal Continue reading “Elegance isn’t Beautiful: Poetry”
Varnished fake smiles,
Unborn faded dreams in an alluring happy guise.
Silent secret sadness under the façade of lies.
Do not define them.
Sparks of a Rebel
Crushing the stars of the destiny,
Grabbing her fate with a passionate melody.
Pushing, pulling, moulding her own constellations,
Oodles of hunger, magic and wild sensations.
She thanks the girl breathing within her nucleus,
For making her believe in wilderness,
When the scars by the wildfire were still ablaze.
Holding back the floods,
Paradoxes boiling her blood.
Pretence whirling her brain,
Unknown that she’s camouflaging a hurricane.
An infant entering the world,
Water cascading in swirls.
Life, a buoyant process,
A beautiful chaotic mess.