you would burn in waters,
if you could feel my skin now.
smudged dose of love, insipid flaky fingers
this arm hurts now from resurrecting my soul,
streams of rivers lynching my soft neck.
i long for love and loneliness altogether
cleaved moon dripping honey on pale skin.
you kept me breaking, like twings and forests.
sliced ounce of crooked lemon zest, burning.
it kept me hurting yet alive, you see.
i could feel the faulty facets
leaking sideways of my languid arms.
topsy turvy my tongue, this moment.
i am moth, sucking glaze from marigold,
camouflaging dust & bitter taste of you, perhaps.
this is me, this is survival now.
swallowing all that I see.
you sit on my corrosive neck and feel the black void spot,
i have bones made of bone-china and a little neck to proceed.
i stand and look for you in aberrant currents,
i split daylight across your arms.
to know the layers of your skin & words
i perform rituals day after day.
A windswept memory tucked between your lips.
a grey memory folded like velvet curtains.
i imagine you in a surrealistic way.
A song to hum, to ingest the threads of madness.
i think of you in moments of cacophony that stich my ears with a soft noise of you.
I know I generally don’t do awards but this time I made it an exception mainly because I wanted to answer something about myself as I am in the process of Self- discovery. Many thanks to tinarosepoetry for nominating me for the same.
Thank blogger(s) who nominated you in the blog post and link back to their blog.
Answer the 11 questions the blogger asked you.
Nominate 11 new blogs to receive the award and write them 11 new questions.
List the rules and display the Sunshine Blogger Award logo in your post and/or on your blog.
What is your favourite thing about being a blogger or writer?
I feel like blogging is the process of Catharsis for me. It relieves a lot of pain and anxiety making me feel better. The favourite thing shall be writing without giving a damn!
Where do you get your writing and blog post inspiration from?
My darkness is enough to inspire me.
Who inspires you the most in your life?
My mind. And if we talk about a person- Audrey Hepburn to an extent.
How do you deal with writers’ block?
I go crazy then sip a cup of coffee. Then reverse the whole procedure until I am sane to think again.
What is your favourite thing in the world?
Staying happy and writing.
What is your mantra?
Expect nothing from anyone and You shall be at peace.
Best place you have travelled to and why?
None so far to compare. I want more to make me happy.
Where would you love to travel to in the future?
Paris. Seychelles of course.
If you were allowed only one item on a desert island what would it be?
A journal perhaps?
If you had five wishes what would they be?
My wish to be successful in writing a bunch of poetry books.
Loving myself more and more.
Living a couple of months in a tree house, alone.
If you could be anyone for a day, who would you be?
Pablo Neruda, I really want to get inside his way of thinking.
I was the one
with bruises and stones
in my mirror-eyed reflection
a reflection of you, mother
the cacophony of time and hours
floating inside your eyes,
the heaviness of pebbles and rituals.
Your arm mocked your cerulean breast,
with its swollen stigma of memoirs
and some pictures, vintage.
I combed your concave mouths
of dripping forlorn fractures,
like a staircase bleeding
or a topology reversed and processed.
I am a soft song in your black-knitted bun
a piece of your chipped nail,
a sunflower, kissed and harassed
inside your turbulent head.
A cauldron, and a day full of nights
hid beneath your muffled chin,
a mole hanging beneath your shouts and dim- dreams. Mother, you are a pool of madness
and a point blank.
Obscure, shadowy your tongue knits tears
and a sweet thread of touch, impeccable.
Sometimes, I glint in your orange censure
a pattern of love and you,
Your body is a dream.
and I fall in your loops of laps.
the uncontrollable seizures,
the uncontrollable laughters, Scarlet red wires.
it’s all you, it’s all you.
a birthmark & a taboo
i am a lavish smile of smirk
you incubated me & my head
with soils of murder and hatred
sins of monster & coal of coals.
to kiss your dark soul
i swim like a starfish,
concurrent currents floating
inside my solitary knee-bone see it, feel it, sniff it chop it. chop it. chop it
it Shall again appear with
half sun and half moon rays.
like a starfish singing,
unveiling the balmy metaphors
crooked though plumbed
in your anxious fingers of blood
in your anxious mouth of dirt.
During nights, my body becomes a range of chemicals. The nocturnal nails dip in the swamp of black thoughts. My windowsill evaporates, fumes of my detailed miseries. It’s not saddening what my mind does to my hand and arms. My hair bun, all soaked in summer sweat, dripping anxiety like forlorn tales of missing cities and people. Cleaved heart with tossed skin, my yellow skin delivers light during the phosphene of night.Tangling and swinging, the ebb of my calves lift up like candle flames floating. I cling moist conversation to my entire body parts. Inch by inch. I unwrap the stagnant proliferating blood shadows slowly as my cigarette fades. Silence is the best healer. The wounds chop the underlying skin, razor teeth on my mind. Time defies body, time defies truth, time defies the eye.
I often take a pen and mark my mouth with words and poetry. Periphery protects a savoured soul. Soil: it marks the beginning and the ends like a mirror-crack. Insanity is not what I would call it! During nights, my body regenerates, a cotton swab soaked and firm like Osmosis emerging inside. My body becomes wild.
It’s a symmetry of red dot with a black line. It delivers a soliloquy speech of life and death. Something that my orchid coffin understands and my bizarre soul knows. Chemistry shoots up my body like a talking death hoop. During nights, my body eats my mind.
The sound of water almost uncanny,
A plastic bag bloats and floats
like a memory of thoughts
piled and halved beneath,
my sagging skin of skins.
The room is a liquid gel
with my thoughts arrested,
sleek and colourful.
my thoughts bifurcate further
With tunes of melancholy
and cascading mystical languages.
To observe the stagnant darkness
with my crisp white eyes
A twig eating another twig.
I sit and scream
in the slivers of time
piercing through this vacuum body,
I hear rumbling of sky
detonating my body vapours
I nourish the thoughts
like a cotton swab
softly, piling and weeding.
It's almost ethereal.