It’s changed,
My urge to look forward to things
How the closed doors scare me
As much as the open fields
How the jewel I wore with pride chokes me
How I can only feel the thorns of the corset on my wrist
I try to tell my sister
But she wouldn’t listen.
I try to tell my mother,
She asks me to make new friends or better plans,
But she fails in trying to decipher the words dripping from my mouth,
Am I not speaking the same language, Maa?
They tell me it’s a phase.
There is always a lullaby in my head,
But that keeps me up instead
I don’t know what to say them.
I am drowning in the waves,
But only I’m not scared of depths.
I am choking on the words,
But only I’m not even saying them aloud.
Dreams : Do not Open !!!
As I was searching for my old book, I opened the wrong drawer..!!! It had my diary of poems I had written in the past. They were begging to be read, so that I couldn’t stop myself. And soon my nostalgia turned to tears. I closed my diary and kept it inside. For I didn’t want her to see me crying. It’s been years since I shared my feelings with her. What shall I tell her, where was I? I looked through some other stuff and came across a file with my paintings and sketches. I greeted each of them with blurry eyes. They said they were missing me. I didn’t want to fade their glory with my tears. So, I carefully kept it inside as well. I closed the drawer, stuck a small piece of paper on it and wrote, “Dreams: Do not open”..!!!
#FirstPost #ShortStory #Yashiism
Winters!
Under those sheets of the white sky
with nothing all around but white darkness,
mind full of chaos,
chaos people call memories.
The vision is blurred
with drops of water on my glasses,
no matter how much I clean it,
it gets wet
again, and again.
My blood seems to be dried
my entire body is pale and white,
and much how I rub it
it does not get warm,
but shiver from inside
afraid to lose the heat
afraid to lose the heat.
Snowman and snowballs,
and those cold figures on the ground
are more humane than this universe,
fortunately,
unfortunately.
Nights are much longer
so nowadays my poems are,
just personify
my words to stars
into galaxies of emotions,
into the verse of reality.
With each ray of sun
a hope of warmth emerges,
which eventually dies
with every February
and with every word of this poem,
with every word of this poem.
Lost Poems!
My poems feel like lost write ups
They’ve lost their paths intentionally
The map which showed all directions
Have been fled by unknown
Maybe creativity has been diseased
Amidst home bound humans and airs
The happy air among house inmates
With families fathers could see.
Imagine the tiniest of beings
Invisible to the human eye
Has put a all the streets at rest.
It reminds me of how saints and sages
Recommended never to take small things light
Yet we are humans the least social beings of society.
Silence and slumber has become the best answers
Laze and longing has become daily routines
Paper notes are mere paper notes of trash.
Thus creativity appeals a break too.
It might have it’s own family
It might be awaiting writer’s block
To make his house of old rotten unsent poems
Home by merging and allignments.
Lost Poems!
My poems feel like lost write ups
They’ve lost their paths intentionally
The map which showed all directions
Have been fled by unknown
Maybe creativity has been diseased
Amidst home bound humans and airs
The happy air among house inmates
With families fathers could see.
Imagine the tiniest of beings
Invisible to the human eye
Has put a all the streets at rest.
It reminds me of how saints and sages
Recommended never to take small things light
Yet we are humans the least social beings of society.
Silence and slumber has become the best answers
Laze and longing has become daily routines
Paper notes are mere paper notes of trash.
Thus creativity appeals a break too.
It might have it’s own family
It might be awaiting writer’s block
To make his house of old rotten unsent poems
Home by merging and allignments.
Silent Poems!
I love the kind of poems
where we don’t speak to each other
There are airport lounges in the scene,
beach-side restaurants and
birthday parties of mutual friends
but,
It’s the hotel elevators
where conversations happen
when we try to go for the buttons
and our fingers touch.
It’s the queues for groceries
where we stand behind one another
and accidentally take a step too soon
or one too late
It’s picking the same book
taking the same taxi
or sitting next to each other at the movies,
our legs tight for the shiver,
where our worlds coexist
for a little while
The tension that builds between us in room
is the tickle I take to bed at nights
With my eyes closed, my fingers
draw me to depths of dreams
where we can’t stop talking dirty
And I end up not knowing what to feel for you
except that I know exactly how I don’t want to
So, each day I think of a hundred ways
to spark a conversation with you,
yet each night, end up closing with a poem
where we don’t speak to each other.
Airplane Rides!
Plane rides have always made me feel a certain way.
There’s undoubtedly excitement in the air when you’re in for one, and honestly, it feels like being in a rollercoaster without bindings on.
But there’s this one tiny part of my mind that condemns this modern marvel.
Somehow, it tells me that journeys weren’t supposed to be this easy.
And maybe, just maybe, clouds weren’t supposed to be touched, and man wasn’t supposed to fly in the first place.
The way people leave a place so far behind and go off to another one in a matter of jiffies makes me think of how fast people leave behind the ones who once meant home to them, and how fast they find their new supposed homes.
Yashiism 