They say “home is where the heart is”. Many will go on to the extent of saying home and house are different. House refers to bricks and buildings whereas home contains people- people whom we call our family. This much we all know.
Not just a thing on school syllabus or the editorial of a newspaper , I believe essays are not just merely an form of writing or a tool to analyse an topic but as an scope to look to the world, to challenge an idea . The very form of debate with yourself, but you may disagree. Let’s change that, shall we?
Last night at three a.m.
when my conscious drooled
and my heart sat on throne
I wrote my first love
a last poem on love.
The unfinished poem sits
Stares at me and waits for you,
you’d come back to make it throb
or burn us to ashes
At four, she started to speak and said
I wish I could name you after his initial
and draw that sign again
which I thought would hang
on all of our graves
It’s five and she’s still speaking
He is the kin of love
You are the orphan of love
I, poem, is your child
and I love you and never let you go
at six, I stopped listening to her
she touched something broken
and my beliefs are shattered.
I press play the button of my thoughts
the rain dribbles, lovers sing in street
she hides under table still gets drained
And I am lost in letting go.
my thinking plays mind games with me
and tells me, If the rain washes our hands and the water reunites
then maybe somehow my wish comes true
and we are made for each other.
at seven a.m
on seventh july
the poem of love
left me in ruins.
you leave me,
like he left you,
devastated and torn
I can’t stay.
by the time I woke up
time has stopped and she ran away
my paper sits blank
love left too and my soul is barren.
they all thought leaving me will change
my stubborn habit of waiting
even though they knew
I am not capable of letting go.
I saw you and I never knew
How much would it cost to have you
I gave up on everything
Since I could feel you
The path I chose
The ways I took
To love you was something
I could have never thought of
Nothing I found, before you
Like you were the one I was waiting for
The way you came in me was unimaginable
Love, partners and soulmates
were just words to me before you
And then you were the one for everything
I could have never thought of
For you weren’t just an addiction then
You were more than everything
I had been sober for years and
I wasn’t prepared for you even
But it’s like
From the very first puff of yours
You had me completely
I was out of senses I guess
That I loved and continued
For I thought of a forever
That doesn’t exist anymore .
Writing a waltz should have been effortless. The pen should move around the pages as dancers move around the ballroom. Thoughts should come with a fluency of the heart! Then why do I stumble?
Sometimes I wonder if life could be like a waltz! Easygoing, fluent, musical!
Yet at every step I seem to trip, wait, stumble and look around. I see people dancing smoothly through the ballroom of life- effortlessly, rhythmically. Yet I seem to stand there alone. Still waiting for a question- will you dance with me?
Other questions arrive and along come compliments too: what beautiful shoes you have got! Want to have a round with me? You dance really good! But never the same one I search for- will you dance with me?
So I walk around the corner, in my beautiful blue shoes- admiring the cherry trees enveloping us. I realise it is always spring if we start walking…until we get the perfect question and start dancing!
Then only spring of life turns into a spring waltz!
I pushed my heart off the top
the building and called it death by
free fall is beautiful and heartbreak
you see he told me that love is
maybe like a summer dream,
hot and sweltering half baked in the
sun in hues of sepia and vintage tones,
like the polaroids I love so much.
but when the sun has set and the
midnight hues of black sets in,
love often turns into a war cry that
I smoke in my throat to feel the
ashes burn my tongue and his
name an aftermath of the battle,
battered and bruised.
there is melancholy in the air,
an undercurrent of regret that
makes my lungs feel full.
my heart is heavy with the
words that I bury in my throat,
the letters seep with the anger
I can rarely hide.
regret is a visceral being that
breathes down my spine,
chilling my bones and
making me numb.
love was not supposed to be this.
it was supposed to be a 90’s pop song
that I play in the vinyl record on
a rainy afternoon.
now love has turned into a tragedy
that will put even Shakespeare
free fall is beautiful.
but now death of this love will feel
Under the shower, I scrub the sponge against my skin, a little too hard.I don’t want his trace, his smell. I don’t want to do anything with him.I’m not guilty, I should be, but I feel wildly free.I didn’t do anything wrong.
It hurt. Looking at her hurt.
There is a pretty moon up in the sky that is aloof and it looks down at all of us. I sometimes wonder if she and I are staring at it together.