What amazes me is the notion of sadness bringing us all human together. If we think deeply about it- we might find an insatiable quench to sit and share this massive grief. Instead, we circulate remarks about literature, art, and human minds walking downwards. Where do we then carry forward this collective sadness and grief? Do we spit and spat or do we think of it as a life lesson forever? There has to be an end. An end to this corollary of distinctive yet massive grief. This sadness which human collects and wear in disguise. We do take help from art, literature, but is that it? Is there more? Space- times. There is anticipation. Black redundancy of slipping emotions. Where are we that we are not able to hold them? Shall we sit on this grief? Shall we change the verb here? What should be done with this collective sadness dear friend? Is it ugly? Is it beautiful? Is it the first- born? Stringing wound floating inside the mind.
Link to buy my poetry book- Crimson Skins
I might have trembled a bit with my words before but there is no dimension to art. We create what abstract images look like in our thin membranes of mind. Some say it is- art- a way of living. I am unsure what it should be named. There is eternal power when we feel satisfied doing something- a thing that delivers solace and creates an abstruse anomaly of questions. A stack of melting rainbows. We need to catch all the colors and hold them in our palms to define the dimensions of life as we continue living this vivid, weird phase of life. Not every heart will remain the same- so dear artists- whatever side of the story you have- it should produce distinctive behavioral and mentalist satisfaction to create and to quench your own truth. There is no truth but you.
image credits- pinterest
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, piquant attachment
from your dreams, father
a moist lost string of a pullover
that you always wanted to cherish.
I think of the sky
as I think of you
of infinite stars
of colours and oceans.
Of letters stuck to the neem trees
as I hold your this lost letter.
this is the only word that you should sleep on
for you remind me of rudimentary silhouettes of trees,
lukewarm peel of laughter.
I just issued a newsletter yesterday on fathers. Check it out-https://tinyletter.com/my_valiant_soul/letters/poetry-on-father
My hands leak blue crooked blood.
I tried suicide today.
Walked like a ghost/ a melancholy boiler.
a house that leaks.
wax statues going bizarre.
Bizarre like dissolving inside my hollow stomach.
i am here.
i am there.
A loop of curve, falling on the equinox.
burn this society inside my mouth
i wish death today.
I wish pain to kill my pain today.
blue, blue, this body.
tiptoeing through bones of fumes.
A zebra. A succulent spiral canvas.
Paint it dead.
submit your words here
This Skin is transparent, like a stitch to spew,
to flatter the moments of despair.
The bruises occur,
with an open mouth
an empty sheet of braided dreams
this skin claps and claps
with a bowl of spewing lotus,
and a hollow dripping hocus-pocus
Peppermint& honey drops
with earbuds sagging,
this skin melts,
in the oceanic mouth of yours.
Or this skin divides
in my repetitive sins and sins.
I gasp and pray
till my body collapse
with a dying hint of clove,
wafting breeze of paddy fields
this skin smiles.
Like polaroids humming
in the crux of
my immune skin.
INSTAGRAM- MY VALIANT SOUL
These circles of fingers
and skins and bones,
and something beneath the bones,
rub rub rub
something beneath the thoughts of thoughts
burns, and sins and sins.
Crooked dripping lies,
exhausting this naked galaxy
heaviness obviates fireflies
thoughts thoughts thoughts
Stinking and swelling,
I am a pause.
P.S- I might have missed writing on WordPress yet my insta is updated with the challenge.
It gives me immense pleasure in finally collaborating with Poems in Coffer girl Chhaya. She is a lovely soul and so is her scintillating writings.
A room full of rancid leftover night
is a reminder of repugnant voids
that conform to the oddities
of a desolate decaying mind
I hear my mind crackling and fading with
whispers gone, numbness sticking
the walls break inside my opaque body,
thrashing and mocking soliloquy wilderness
Pain: the metamorphosis of painkillers, death.
Hold my cryptic thistle cacophonies
Like a lotus scratching a lotus.
the senescent atrophic walls
that preserve banal prosaics
from bromidic tales of love
are a source of an abhorrent odour
clogging conduits of all my senses
and all that permeates my cranium
is an insistent sound of stale knocks
that still linger on brazen panels
placed on fermenting doors of oak
Devoid of a filter, cupid raspberry, air.
My veins play laconic tunes to deaf poetry
with sinking toes in a pool of madness
my body aches and desiccates, trepidation somewhere.
The wax image of my parched lips,
dribbles till the curtains evaporate.
Icicles of pain pokes my palm
Unheard epiphanies, unheard voices.
Wars occur and I am a black moon swinging.
Under the clock of stingy bees
I dedicate my memories
I dedicate my breaths, mirrors and lost talks.
and I grieve for murky windows
with shrivelled wavering frames
held by creaking rusted hinges
the ones that steadily deflect
every beam of light and hope
yielding layers of mouldy mildew
to spread like a suppurating sore
on the bod of my mephitic room
filled with leftover nights without you.
Blood into ink is a safe place for all the unheard voices of Survival and brave souls. Anyone who has suffered the cruelty or has been traumatized can submit their writings to the submission page of this bold journal. We would love to spread your voice and words.
Its a place for all the courageous souls who feel the pain, who knows the thirst and want to express it through their voices. Please feel free to share your writings and in the same process read the work of our fabulous fellow writers. Their writings are breathtaking!