Echos from the soul

​To some poetry is just jumbled words made to love beautiful. To some poetry is but a way to impress. And there are some to whom poetry is the very essence their everyday living hangs on.

Hats off to all those wonderful poets who have made our life colorful!

Here is a little something from your fan!
What madness is this thing,

Called poetry?

Where love becomes the sun and the moon

And the heart, the ocean blue

Where love becomes the seven seas,

The surfer quests to tame.

Spinning tales out of the crashing waves

Hoping for a footprint, in the sands of time
What absurdity is this thing,

Called poetry?

Delusional quotes carved

On the tombstone of the dead

Telling tales of lives

Of great men and of others

Of hope and hardships

Of lost lives in the struggle, called living.
What is this poetry? I asked.

The autumn leaves and its inner peace

The dancing rain and its untold joy

Take my breath away!

‘Poetry, my dear’, said the voice in my head.

‘..is all things beautiful’.

Then again, everything is beautiful.

In its own unique way.
The above is a humble tribute from a person who has spends many a happy moments in the company of poetry.

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Mon Amour

You gave me the most wonderful gift I can ever ask for. You gave me the confidence, to write and to write my heart out. Hence here I’m, writing my heart out for all my heart ever has, is you.

​The writer who dies

At the mention of your name,

Crumbling, like a sand castle

Washed away, marooned forever.

The writer who lives

In the shadows of your memories,

Fondness like the fire

Burning bright, from within.

The writer who writes

With the black of the night,

Constellations of you, and me,

In my fantasy skies.

For I’m the writer who bleeds

For bleed is all I can do

When I’m in love

With you.

The above piece of work is something way too close to my heart, so close that if I ever plagiarise in this, it means I dont even have a heart!

Life in the Memories of you

​There are people like me, people who dont worry about the future or the present. People like me who’s life still revolves around a certain past. A past so magical it has convinced them that there can be no better life than the life that they were part of, and left.

Living in the past aint a sin. Then again, nothing really is a sin. It all lies in the eyes of the beholder.

My voice is but a quiver

My thoughts, a starless night

My heart, the greatest coward

Unwilling to let you go,

Hovering over your memories.
My mind still loves you.

My eyes pry like always

In the voices of chaos

And in the faces, the masquerades,

To feel the magic that is you.
I look for you in the shadows

Shadows that was once people.

In the shattered lives

That speak of beautiful pasts.

‘Coz my love I loved a rose and its thorns.
I need you

For you’re all the people I know

The one true thing in my life.

I want my soul back

As my bleeding heart needs its fix.
Come back to me

Or take me with you,

My love.

My emptiness is unbearable

And my love is unquenchable.
Lets lie on the glistering sand

And gaze upon at the starry night.

Lets fly to the moon, and make it ours.

May our love consume us

And the world.

The above are words of my heart and it is as genuine as it could be.

Unbroken-Like a Green Leaf from a Dead Twig

​The beautiful words of Morgan Freeman in the movie ‘The Shawshank Redemption’ “Every man has his breaking point’echos through my heart.

Life’s a challenge. Not your job, not your programme, not even relationships or love can match life in it. Life gives you a million reason to give up and walk away each day. But what is that one reason that drives you, that one little inspiration that forces to hold on no matter the shit you go through in life? 

Tell me, why wont you give in yet?

I have my reason, hope you have yours’.

The rosiness left her cheeks

Her eyes a looming thunderstorm

And her scarred heart bled

For her love,

The light in her skies

Dying like the crimson sunset.

‘I shall live’

Said the staunch mind.

‘I shall love’

Said the undying spirit.

And it began

Once again

The process called life.

A wounded heart

A haunted mind

And a killing pain

As she trudged on

Unfazed by the hurtin’

Unwilling to let go 

‘Life is too precious’

Said the feeble yet determined heart.
The above has not been copied from anywhere else because, quite frankly, you cant do that here!

A Utopia called Writing

The last time I came anywhere close to writing was in October, over a month and a half ago. I needed this break because I was concerned. I was concerned that writing kept me away from people. Because when I write, I sit alone with a pen and a paper and when I am not writing, I sit alone with my thoughts. I became so engrossed with thoughts that I started skipping my food and isolating myself to have that much needed peace.

So here I’m. I’m coming back home!

There was this great American (Yes, he is no more!) by the name Ernest Hemingway who once said, ‘There is nothing to writing. All you have to do is to sit at a typewriter and bleed’.

Frozen  thoughts haunting,

And unsaid words taunting,

As I clenched my pen,

To bleed.

 

The reality vanishing,

And my senses banishing,

As I clenched my pen,

To bleed.

 

The soul growing warm,

And my mind going numb,

As I clenched my pen,

To bleed.

 

The world becomes a shadow,

And its people, hollow,

As I clenched my pen,

To bleed.

 

Happiness rushing in,

And the tears gushing out,

As I clenched my pen,

To bleed.

 

To bleed my literal heart out.

The above is an attempt by the author to try and capture the emotions every writer experiences when sits down to write. No part of it has been reproduced from anywhere. 

‘Memories maketh a man’

Everyone has a past, some broken beyond repair and some beautiful like a blooming lotus. Situation doesn’t make a man who he is. Experience doesn’t make a man who he is. It’s the memory of it all that makes him who he is.

Here’s a gentle peek into my memories, my mid night thoughts and mid day dreams, my life from how I see it each day.

So what am I now? A confused soul? A delusional idiot?

Memories burden

Like a paper boat

On a still pond

The slightest touch

Causing the scariest ripple

And my heart goes numb.

 

Memories sweeten

Like a heavenly oasis

In a scorching desert

Thoughts of you

Making a masterpiece

Out of my lifeless poems.

 

Memories are untold dreams

Memories are imagined situations

Memories are learnt lessons

Memories are boundless happiness

Memories are bottomless sorrows

 

Memories are living souls

Dwelling in lifeless wraiths.

The above is a work of fiction pretty much close to what the author experiences everyday in his life. No part of it has been reproduced from anywhere.

Affliction

I floated, a fluffy white cloud,

I drifted, a million dollar yacht,

I swarm, a free spirited dolphin,

I rained, a deep dark thunderstorm,

I stomped, I own the world,

I laughed, I cried, I pained, I fumed,

I felt real,

I felt alive,

I felt myself,

With you,

And in the night I wish,

It never ends,

I wish it never ends.

 

This is my first attempt at writing poetry or whatever you may call it. I hope its any good. This is my own work and no part of it is plagiarized.