A few facts about Loneliness

My loneliness spews from the dark curtains / fevering beneath a molted lampshade, running amidst the hanging treehouse, a sharp blue gong of a temple. Upon the arrival of next month, my tongue develops a sickness,                            I sit I stand                           I sit In a nonchalant abrupt way,           Defying the lucid crispness of

Season of moist talks

with our bodies collidingthis night sings a song of petunia,a soft spring blooming behind our feet.A velvet yawn of a quiet afternoon.The night is a tiny flowerthumping against the sun-kissed breathsa hum of summer,a hum of winter.The mouth dipped in the greasy elbows,a pathway to the flowering petals.Silver droplets of water,the body shrinks like a

A lost letter to my father

  image credits- pinterest Thunder, if that is one big word I want you to gulp it down. My walls speaks of you of a memory we shared over the sweet sunrise from the balcony Your percolating memories stir my throat to think of our blue wise words. I was always a pebble a sweet,

The Dance

Prompt- Dramatic Monologue You! The face of singular lotus come, let’s evolve someplace together with our final dance Take my hands interlock it with yours A strand of light A strand of gleam Your face a yarn of mother’s touch a cupboard full of old photo albums. Your body is a shell a shire of

Raindrops

we slumber through days of moist observations of things unspoken of. An organ. A transparency.. there are things beyond our two nutty eye to cling a mouth full of love, Raindrops that cascade through my fragile shoulders through my heavy white bosom that speaks of you speaks of sin speaks of white emptiness raindrops sweet

Slow

Slow as a neighbour’s plant vindictive, timid. Slow as a ripple static hush. An oblong wax melting away, slow, slow as raindrop stuck on a tree As a splash of colour unable to blend a monologue twirling inside my stomach a song so old with cough drops all around the drawers dying slow dying repetitive

A blank slate

I do not need a bowl of salvation for i see people dying each day the walls of fragile mind separating recklessly. Florals of weak mind abstain from blooming as it was never a state of peace. As I write this poetry I weep I weep thinking of my existence of the silences that creates

How bad is my poetry?

I do not write today to hold the things leaking or to slip across the rooms with fever. No. I do not write to mourn the sunburn of humankind, the lips are already pale, i do not wish to write another metaphor too. Things that have way, will escape anyhow and so is my today’s

What we made out of Memories

Prompt- Forgotten Technology This goes beyond the tampered noises that prevail today silence ruffle under the sheets of abrupt behaviour. If I talk, let me talk to you about the mottled photos of yesterday’s yellow sun a wildflower blooming under my chin spreading across the lunatic nights of hum Death too had come on many

The Lovers

Walls of the air do not crack as there exist our stories lingering across the streets. Our thin cucumber bodies/ oiled between a decade of romance speak nothing but of arid lips and concave lust The brooding sniff of the moon to sink between my large womb. She often speaks to me of you. Your