Poetry.

It isn’t supposed to mould

Into something you deem artsy,

Buried down under looming shadows of

The great ones that have come before,

And the ones that are yet to come.

It isn’t supposed to fit into some

Half-crazed, half-lit niche of your mind,

Only for you to ponder upon half-heartedly,

While you sip your morning tea.

It isn’t supposed to move mountains or break oceans,

Or drive you into giggling smiles,

Queitly creeping in to make you feel

What you’ve never felt before.

It isn’t supposed to drive you,

To do something, of that wonderful life of yours.

It isn’t supposed to empower you, or please you,

Or anything you, for that matter.

Poetry,

It just is, like it is.

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Prefer

I like the hazel in your eyes,

You seem to like the glare in mine,

But I have lately noticed that every time my eyes rise up to yours

In silent denial, or abrasive resistance,

You take the easy way out and shy away from me.

 

I like your sparse kisses,

You seem to like my warmth,

But every time your coarse fingers hesitate,

And rub against my skin

You seem to hide away something lying deep within.

 

I like the smile that tugs at your lips,

You seem to like my eyes crinkling at the corner,

But why does it fade away,

That beautiful smile of yours,

Baby why does it die?

 

I like your demons, I try to, at least,

You seem to not see mine,

But don’t you see you light me up, and chase them away,

So why are yours not mine?

 

I see now it’s not a matter of choice,

It hardly is, eh?

I like you, you like me,

We keep going in cycles,

But which do we prefer?

 

Because you see,

I can bear to part from me, for just

A little light from you.

But can you do the same for me?

Risk

Some days it starts deep within,

A need,

Reaching out with winding hands and

Nervously shaking fingers,

The need to scrape down the bricks looming around my heart,

And open and let things fly out,

To let go of the hand which kept it all pressed down,

To let free the mind which shied away,

To free my wrists to bloom petals and my heart

To carve out words it never had before.

 

Some days,

It’s a want;

A far cry from a right, but if you think of it,

All the same.

Because those days I demand to be heard, to be felt

Of all the little things my heart goes through,

Of all the things my mind is bursting to pour,

I demand this with both hands,

Grabbing up the chance to speak, to be heard,

I want this right now.

 

Some days, it’s a lull.

It just is, like I just am.

I feel it like a buzz, the need to speak out loud,

I feel it in the various ways I’m snubbed,

But I feel weak,

Too weak to point out,

Too weak to face the risk, so I just let it be,

Just like it always was.

 

Hidden

I met you on the first day,

The only one with a soft curve for a smile, and

The softest eyes for a soul.

Your large, warm hands grabbed mine

With eagerness; your lips declaring with

Utmost clarity, how glad you were to meet me.

I believed you, that first day.

I felt myself getting lost,

In the vivid way you talked about your dreams,

And there went my heart, fluttering away.

I paid no heed to the warning signs,

To the crooked smile you often bestowed on me,

To the hurried glances you often sent my way,

To the hidden meanings behind a number of your ways.

I grappled along with your unsung promises,

Only meant to flater but not deliver.

And when it was over, and I lay in meshes at your feet,

The layer of trust in my broken heart, was

Still higher than the walls of faith

You chose to shatter.

 

Sail Away

I stretch, my fingers aching at,

The remnants of your touch,

The mealstrom in the air which

Your presence awakened.

I yearn, a mighty feeling which

Rises from the pit of my stomach,

It flares and burns, each time

You turn my way.

I despair, clawing at my skin,

The marks on flesh not as deep

As the wounds on my heart,

Your sailing away gave birth to.

I falter, my cheeks often stained,

With the red of roses,

My head dizzy and heart fluttering,

Which the memory of your smile led to.

I sigh, my mind whirring over lost times,

And unfinished sentences,

A soft smile yet creeps up my lips,

For all the dreams you gave birth to.

Stretch marks

You call them ugly?

Or do they make you hesitate,

Your fingers pulled back in a moment’s uncertainty,

Floating mid-air, till you decide to let it go,

And touch her anyway, and sweep away the memory under,

The rug in your mind which hides your basest thoughts.

You don’t know the battles they’ve fought for her,

Between men who sweep their hands over them,

And boys who tediously avoid the seemingly ugly lines.

You don’t know the countless sacrifices,

Between choosing what not to eat and

Deciding how much to starve.

You don’t garner the intense vulneraibility she lays hidden,

Within those bold stretches across her waist,

You just see the play of skin on skin,

And you keep your fingers away.

 

 

Gray

It’s been twelve minutes since midnight,

And I haven’t blinked once,

Every time I try to go void, it’s like

My own heart tries to betray me and

Pulls me back into this hot mess.

But do you realize, that in these twelve minutes of midnight,

I’ve gone through the last 12 months probably

A hundred times,

I’ve sighed at all the good parts, and

Cut out the times that you went dark,

From my memory, which betrays me,

Every time that I even think of how wrong you were,

It clings to the first time I had your arms around me,

And felt what I felt what I was never going to feel.

 

I try to come around, to this world seeming so gray, and

Monstrous truths and bitter lies, but my

Mind plays tricks, and traps me into its own doom.

It’s like I see the way out of this,  but I won’t even take my first step.

I see that this had to end the way it did,

But I would go through it again, just for

The briefest of times with you.