#poetdiaries

MOST RECENT

|| SPILL'D ||
.
.
"Redemption in the embrace of the beyond" - my mind rattled that day, I recall it, was a Wednesday summer, a crisp cloudless afternoon of May when I locked myself up in my room and sat over the ledge of my window, guessing the distance from the frailing wall to the chipped concrete ground below, wondering how many pieces my bones would break into if I made that fall. The sun was up and I could hear the television set rambling from the room outside where my little sister sat, watching Flintstones, with Fred going "Yabadabadoo" over his Dino cart, synced with clinks of metal from the kitchen. My mother never noticed the chopping knife missing from her set, that sat lazing on my bed instead, what a loser
.
"Redemption in the embrace of the - ", the edge glinted as the sun inclined slyly through the wide open sill, broad enough to let the rays pass and kiss the steel like ex-lovers making out after a year of separation. There was passion, there was thirst. The blade had not tasted blood, not yet
.
"Redemption in the embrace -", I get off the ledge and hold the hilt like the chalice passed over to me, like it was my last chance to gulp down salvation, like it would show me the way to Paradise. The sharp of the knife inviting me, luring me into a self-absorbing assurance, yes, it is the only path
.
"Redemption in the -", the steely point grazing my left forearm, the metal was cold, the rays of the sun didn't make enough love with it, that it wouldn't even scald the scattered hair over my wrist, let alone pierce the pulsating blue under my thin skin, what a waste of wrought. I lance the blade an inch into my arm and the blue turned crimson over it's first inception to the outside world.

Ruse of my own doing, even the hues of the brimmed blood changed upon parting, how could I have expected any less from you? Would my bones have conned me upon my descent too? Is this all worth going through?

Edges cleaned over my red sleeve. Door unlocked. "I think you forgot this inside, mum." The knife back in it's slot, I sit outside with my little one, watching Fred gift Wilma, a new pearl necklace in his animated affair. The stone-age love.

Rest in comments.

|| EMOTIONAL RIOT ||
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Underneath the night sky,
beneath the half moon,
sitting under the flickering lamp,
the metal of the post feels cold on my back. The wisps of the smoke rings make it a yard.. a yard into the dark before they disappear with the breeze, do they die?

The stars blink but the shine of the dead celestials are nothing but an afterglow of the universe that made it miles.. miles that randomly led them light years through the space before they broke into the stratos and touched my bare skin, barely grazing my face, they quietly whisper, do they lie?

Why do you hide your craters, maiden? Are you shy? Or are you certain that love couldn't dare hold onto your crescence with it's frail fingers? Or are you scared to touch my rendered love that lingers? I am looking at you. Is that your crooked smile? Is there humor in a loners musing? Atleast I know you're looking at me too, would you call it divine?

Silhouettes are blank canvases to imagination. A human? An angel? Or a clouds aberration? A forgotten face looms over in my half sedation. Am I traveling in time? Can I still call you mine?

The fire don't burn, they turn hearts to ashes. They free faith from the binds and chains of the lashes.. the ashes, don't mean a heaped rubble of despair, they're proof, that hope once had a home there.

And still.. still I lay tribune to the half orb'd night, I say mighty prayers adorning the dawning light, my breaths are held still by your sight, the armor's rusting off the tired knight.

2AM. My back's sore and the stars are gone, the lamp's dead and the fire's blown, my eyes feel weak and shine is none but,

in the weary, I have forlorn,

it was divine,
to call you mine,

in the dreary, I, at last, have known,

the whispers don't lie,
the wisps don't die....
.
.
.
.
. -P.S.

@atignasart was kind enough to lend me her work for a while. Her art is divine, inspiring even. Many of us believe that art, literature, poetry, music, dance are all radical beliefs without unknowingly understanding that all of us are inherently born with it. Each and every soul is a piece of art and it's various forms are channels of expression. @atignasart, Dhanyavaad.

Guess the gate behind? Guess the city? Because I am sure you know @amandeep.khayal #bolkeyealfazmerehai #nawabokashehar #baketi #poetdiaries

Most Popular Instagram Hashtags