Blog Feed

Posted in Epics, Poetry

At war

Our wedding bells rung
Like every other couple’s
Except ours was a commencement
Of a forthcoming battle.

She was alerted beforehand
That setting me off
Meant putting everything at stake
But surrendering isn’t an option.

Unlike me, her only armaments
Are her dangling ornaments
That jingle as she marches
And what the enemy clan is eyeing.

As for allies
She just has her neighbours
Who again might switch sides
As part of a strategy.

She could fall prey
To their constant scheming
But I know she will rise
Like she was never pinned down.

And even if the God of War
Descends on the battlefield
To declare a truce
Victory will still prevail.

Every second of her survival
Is a tussle in itself
Because our probabilities
Can turn out to be inaccurate.

She could just be out in the garden
Watering her white roses
When the bulletin would be updated
With blood stained reports from the warfare.

She could be slipping a postcard
Through the mouth of a mailbox
When my lifeless body
Would pass her shadow.

Once the news breaks out
It will hit her like a grenade
And though she would shield herself
She’d still thrive as a worthy opponent.

If there would be a series
Of missiles shot to honour me
Give her a tribute there and then
Because she is the real warrior.

And if at all an epitaph
Would be laid in my name,
Have her sacrifices engraved too
For she is the one at war.

~Poem 31

Glorify her risks
(Picture credits: Gunduz Agayev)
Posted in Epics, Poetry

I danced

For a person with absolutely
No sense of rhythm,
But only blues,
You sure have cast quite a spell.

From bearing two left feet
To those awkward hand movements,
I have come across a long way
As now I am both tamed and free.

Look at me Honey,
See how I am dancing,
The general audience isn’t bothering me,
But I am in accordance with everything natural.

The grass is getting tickled,
The sun is beaming from arc to arc,
The wind is blowing in my favour,
While you’re in awe of your own creation.

So tell me who requires mirror walls,
When one has a muse like you?
And tell me who needs a pair of bellies,
When one is being propped up in your arms?

~Poem 30

A feeling of freedom like never before
(Picture credits: Unknown; Source: Pinterest)
Posted in Letters

Give my love to…her

Love,

As I lay here, on my death bed, I would like to share my last wish with you. It’s no surprise that my body will soon wither away, just like the bunch of roses you offered me to take to the grave as a farewell present. So I request you to pick one of the finest roses in the lot and keep it in your shirt pocket, while everyone else is busy with the formalities.
After all the rituals are over, and you head back home, I want you to cry your eyes out. I will not stop you from spilling your emotions because just like the spell of rain ends, so will your grief. As soon as your heart begins to feel better, let your mind take charge of your actions. Change the bed sheets and your pillow covers, and open the curtains. Take a shower, and put on some fresh clothes. You can channel all your thoughts towards your heart right after you do this.
Seems easy, right? I hate to break it to you, but this is only 50% of the task that I have asked you to carry out for my dying soul. You might feel reluctant at first and you have every right to deny my request, but I have valid reasons to still put it forward. Besides, I won’t even be alive to see your bitter reaction. *Inserts tongue out emoticon here*
I suppose you’re all set to go to work. Well, Don’t. You will, however, need to step out to fulfil my desire. Don’t use your car, honey. Go on foot. And don’t forget to carry the rose I told you to pick. It is alright if it has wilted because it will hold more significance this way. You’ll know how shortly.
Now head towards the market area, and turn right after three blocks.
There. I don’t think I need to guide you further. You know which door to knock.
Don’t be afraid. She will let you come in. There is no need to inform her about my demise. The news would have reached her anyway. Once you both are done with the awkward exchanges, I will need you to offer that very same rose to her.
Look, she might get mad at first, but she will cool down too. Don’t let her series of insults get to your heart. Those are just bottled up emotions flowing out. But whatever her decision may be, make sure she does accept the rose. That will give her something to think about.

You must be wondering why I asked you to go to her and not move on instead. You see dear, I know she still cares for you, even though you drifted apart. You were high school sweethearts, and it was only misunderstandings that sent you along different paths.
We both were connected, but we didn’t have the luck.
You both had a spark, and now you’re getting another chance to rekindle it.
And as funny as this may sound- I trust her. I trust her because poetry runs in her veins too, and misjudging a writer’s heart is completely out of the question. I know she still has a drawer somewhere in the corner of her house that is devoted to you, even though it might be jammed due to brushed off thoughts. And I also refuse to believe that she is embarrassed by those cheesy couplets she wrote for you back then.
Now that I’ve stated my reasons, please be patient. She will respond. And your love will blossom again, just like old times.
In a few minutes from now, my heart won’t be here to get hurt by your choice, but my soul will ache if it sees yours wandering alone.
Go back to your old lover, my dear. Cherish her. Say you’ll marry her, and mean it this time.
Basically, give her my share of your love.

This is me, signing off from your love.
Goodbye.

Be her immortal now
(Picture credits: Unknown; Source: We heart it)

Posted in Epics, Poetry

On paper and life

I.
Like a fresh page of a notebook,
you begin writing your story,
you have the option of ink and graphite,
and likewise that of a whitener or an eraser,
but you could always tear the page off!

II.
By the time you reach the middle,
you’re equally trained and drained,
while the binding- the two staple pins,
now lay bare in front of you,
as you’ve exhausted your free trials from page one.
III.
You’re already familiar with the last page,
as it’s the sole witness to your aspirations
like random doodles and scraps of poetry,
and even those endless scribbles,
that were drawn to taste the future.

I.
A few pages come stuck,
some arrive as a misfit,
and many bear missing margins,
but they all become a hurdle,
only and only if you let it.

II.
It’s totally up to you-
to either take down notes
just for your existence,
 make paper planes and paper boats,
or maybe balance out the two.

III.
The ink is fading and so are the memories,
the lessons, however, will remain in your archives,
for you now know you mustn’t give in
to paper cuts and loose leaves, and most of all-
that life is but an eulogy for death.

~Poem 29
Book of Life
(Picture credits: Unknown; Source: We heart it)
Posted in Epics, Poetry

Colours

Old pal,
I believe that you’re caught up in the greys of life,
So much that when black enters, it never feels out of the blue,
You seem to be aiming for white, which fades away too soon,
However, you fail to realise that even in blues,
There exist magnificent hues
Now what you need to do is view life as a blank page,
And then create an abstract image
But don’t settle for what’s made of wax,
Trust me, it’s a hoax in the form of a box,
Pick up the set of pastels instead,
And I guarantee-
There will be reds and carmine too,
There will be greens and jade too,
There will be yellows and ochre too,
You could be inclusive of orange and purple too,
And you may even find room for pink and brown too
Now, if you still choose to stick with monochrome
Then there is no hope for you
Recall how you art teacher would insist
On your filling in the white gaps as much as possible
And apply the same rule to your life
Only then will you truly appreciate the light
That falls in naturally.

~Poem 28

Don’t block your hope by romanticising dark hours
(Picture credits: Grant Haffner)
Posted in Epics, Poetry

Broken-heart surgery

To peel a broken heart,
You do not require a pair of sterile gloves,
But only a string of words,
Uttered without a second thought.

To feel a broken heart,
You do not require any special tool,
Glance at the victim in the eye,
And be on the lookout for the telltale spark.

To heal a broken heart,
You do not require another heart,
Wire your brain in such a manner,
That it always gains the upper hand.

To seal a broken heart,
You do not require a dozen stitches,
Just put on the suit of the Tin Man,
Without his bizarre wish of course.

~Poem 27

Your ideal broken heart
(Picture credits: Emma Parker)
Posted in Short Stories, Stories

Just once more (Part 2)

She opened the door with the most spectacular smile pasted on her lovely face. Her wet ringlets nuzzled her shoulders, while her body-con dress hugged her supple skin. She wrapped me in her embrace, letting her perfume spray onto my shirt. She then took my hand and ushered me into her house.
“Why don’t you freshen up while I prepare dinner? You probably had a long day!” She suggested while readjusting her place.
I responded with a smile and headed towards the washroom with my clothes. The tiring day was worth the soothing shower. It took me quite a while to realise that I was putting in extra efforts to groom my body.
The aroma of all my favourite dishes hit me as soon as I stepped out.
“Oh! That was quick. Come sit down. I will serve you.”
“Alright!”
She took the seat that was diagonal to me and then tried to engage me in small talk. She asked me about my day, the people I talked to and everything else she could think of.
Maybe she was just as nervous as I was. I dusted that thought at once and shifted my attention to the remaining portion on my plate.
‘Just one spoon left now. Then she’s all yours.’ The devil inside me was now lurking around. However, I managed to cover it with an overly sweet mask. I took charge of clearing the table and volunteered to help with the dishes as well.
Once everything was done, she suddenly got this urge to dance with me. I also gave into her odd request, owing to the fact that the music she had selected was pretty sensual.
‘Relax dude. You’ll get to lay your hands on her skin sooner this way,’ I assured myself while swaying her around the room. But amidst all of that movement, I found myself stuck there in the moment. I was enjoying it.
I let her spin again, but she didn’t return to me this time. Instead, she proceeded towards the bathroom, leaving me with wild guesses. Without giving it a second thought, I entered her bedroom and yanked my t-shirt.
I sprawled on her bed and awaited her presence next to me.
My waiting came to an abrupt halt as she climbed onto the bed and threw her arms around me.
But something felt odd. We weren’t skin to skin. Something was obstructing our friction.
It was her clothes- a loose t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants; to be more accurate. While I was trying to process the reason as to why she had her clothes on, she buried her face beside my chest. I couldn’t tame my heartbeats, but her eyelids managed to catch up to its rhythm as if it were some sort of lullaby.
Now we were just lying. Lying together. In total darkness, but with kindling souls. Perhaps only God knew the science behind our blaring yet resting bodies.
All I could comprehend was that my days would always end with wanting to sleep with her again. And again.

“And folks, that’s how she turned into my ex-girlfriend,” I concluded while raising a toast with one hand and claiming her with the other.

THE END

Ex-girlfriend
(Picture credits: Unknown; Source: We heart it)