The Window

The white smoke rapidly escapes the distant chimneys –
Two brothers standing side by side through thick and thin.
Oh how they burn!
The waste less,
my heart more,
like red hot lava coated with grey ashes.
I gaze and gaze,
Hoping you would look back.
Shush! It’s a secret.
No one is supposed to know,
especially you.

The cold creeps into my skin,
every strand of hair gives me a standing ovation
as if thoroughly entertained by my bleeding heart.
It must be funny, I understand,
How the void is bigger now.
Hadn’t I harboured enough man-made gods inside that you had to leave me with another one?

The scattered shards of my obsession
spill over the pages again.
I am refraining from an open acknowledgement because…
Remember it’s a secret?
Why do I always end up exchanging love for indifference?
(Provided it’s love at all,
maybe just a temporary imbalance of hormones)
Surely, I think, I don’t deserve this.
Surely, you don’t share the same opinion.
What am I though?
A walking placard for “Use me”?
or maybe just a stinking landfill.
I admit that my notions of love are absurd.
You would slip into my ink much before than my heart.
Still, does that justify your cruelty?

I stare and stare,
I wish I could be the bird tottering about the green,
I wish I could be the amber leaves; lifeless and beautiful,
Or the raindrops eventually finding their path to the drains,
Or maybe a candle burning with all its might when the sun soars at its highest.
But I will get along
with another poem.
Dream another dream.
I will get along,
There will be more birds.
There will be more skeletons of trees flaunting off a leave or two.
There will be more colours
as my heart paints itself grey.
There will be more humour
as there will be more disappointment.
There will be softer sounds of my sobs,
as there will be more melodious notes of another beautiful song.
You will be there in my head, like so many others before, like so many others after.
I am not even sure if I want to forget…

So I watch a little more,
Through the vague reflections on the transparent glass of my window,
Abstract figures, abstract thoughts, abstract future,
Where I would trade love for uncertainty again.
And of course blame myself to the point that I am drowned in my own tears or something.
“No regrets”, and I shall regret even more.
But I will brush the hair off my forehead,
I will put on a red nose, a gigantic smile.
I must look like a clown,
As pathetic as it may sound.

Worry not though,
The grass is still chartreuse,
The sky is still misty and magical.
Sure you wouldn’t look back,
and I would turn thousand different times,
thousand different ways.
The fault is mine;
It’s cooler to be apathetic after all.
It’s cooler not to be hurt.
But what can I say?
You have your drugs and I have mine.
And whatever it may or may not entail,
I am addicted;
I have always been and I always will be.
The wet pages, the blurred margins, the smeared ink and the slurred words being my rehabilitation.

 *

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A wasted vocabulary

Words give away, you know. The snitch. Ratting bastards. Force your detachment, a vehement denial or a secret acceptance for a fiction juxtaposed on a non-fiction and yet they would make the forbidden revelations anyway. Tell them not to and they would confess loudly and openly your hitherto secrets even before you could confess it to your own self.

Words give away, the treacherous cartographers! They would shamelessly plot a map of your vulnerability; leaving it for others to discover and explore. Don’t use them on drawing books. They’d sketch and re-sketch your nakedness in all its ugliness.

Words! Don’t know how to handle them! Such confused creatures! Make them too simple and they would convey your message as a cacophonous crow’s call. Coat them with luxurious vocabulary and instead of glorifying the beauty of your thoughts they would fashionably accentuate your dishonesty and pretentiousness.

Words give away! Oh dear! Don’t trust them! The ultimate occupational hazard! Once you let the valves open there is no emergency button to shut them down. Keep these deceptive creatures away – they have several pathways leading straight to your heart, welcoming everyone, sparing none.

Words give away, the misleaders, the irritating fuckers!  Once the chosen ones hit your head, no synonyms can help you. Replace them with all the fancy syllables you know and yet they would stay out of tune until you use that clichéd set of musical notes that you had meant to avoid all along. Words leave you at odd times! They wouldn’t appropriately describe that amazing moment you had so desperately wanted to capture. And yet they would perfectly document the embarrassment that you resolved to forget permanently.

Words give away, don’t trust these babies and if you can still runaway, RUN! But if you can’t. Then welcome comrade! How have you been? Lie back. What can we do? Let us write a poem together. Don’t let someone else read it though. If you do, we would forever be trapped in the act of differentiating between false appreciation and honest compliment. Nothing would ever be good enough. But nothing can be bad either. Nevertheless, stay here, don’t go! Let’s marvel at the innocence hidden behind their maliciousness instead. Let’s watch them catch our ugly truths with infinite gracefulness. Let’s bloom without wondering about the odd colour combination of our petals. Let’s watch them make way for our idiosyncrasy carefully peeking out from the blanket of our sentences. Let’s swoon to the awkwardness of the lyrics that we just penned down. Let’s dance to the sorrow it conveys. Let’s share the tears at the joy it expresses. Aren’t you amazed by these supernatural abilities? Words give away, the lovers. Once they connect with you, there’s no way to break that bond. Words give away, the interpreters, they would translate the message that can never be spoken or seen. Words give away, the saviors! Even with all their treachery, how do we learn to live without them?

~Musings from the coffee shop

P.S. You can find more posts on the musings from the coffee shop here .

 

 

 

A writer’s delight

I would like to pour you on to the phrases of my writings;
Carelessly, till the pages are soaked wet with you,
You might worship me or might not even recall my name,
But I would still endlessly use your metaphors in my poems…
Wrapped (or strangled?) in the loving arms of my words,
I would like to place you together with fragments of my utterly diverse emotions,
A careful blend of imagination and honesty,
And noone could ever guess who you could be (not even you).
And I might succumb to the sanity of senescence,
But I would like to make sure that you never age,
Slowly and steadily as you get drenched in the ink of my pen,
I would like to give you a snippet of my ending life
while I take away your mortality forever and beyond.

Hope you don’t mind.