Goodbyes and Hellos

Goodbyes and Hellos

I left without a goodbye and this is me, back to the blogging world with a hello. I used to wonder how bloggers would leave their blogs all of a sudden, without any notice, they just up and puff… And then I did it, multiple times actually. Coming back for a post and thinking I’m back for good until the next post takes two weeks to make an appearance. I’d love to put the blame on life and being busy but the truth is, it’s been a matter of priority.

As much as I love writing and reading, a few things come before it, like making the most of the little time I get to spend with my family. Yeah I Know, about 2 months is more than a little time, but then again, when you get to see them once a year, two months is basically little time.

So, this is me saying, I have been an irregular and absentee blogger for the past two months but I am hoping it’s all going to be in the past. Thank you to everyone who still checked out my blog, read and commented on my posts and also, to my new followers, welcome, and I can’t wait for us to connect and have much fun.

Here’s to writing poetry, prose, flash fictions and getting my act together in regards to Mental Health Friday. And to the month of June, I say, please please be good to me. 

                                  Cheers with a Cup of coffee  😉😉

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Writer’s Quote: Gilda Radner

Writer’s Quote: Gilda Radner

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I wanted a perfect ending, now I’ve learnt the hard way, that some poems don’t rhyme and some stories don’t have a clear beginning, middle and end. Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it without knowing what’s going to happen next. Delicious Ambiguity.
-Gilda Radner

I find that there is something beautiful in not knowing- it leaves room for hope and as Emily Dickinson famously wrote, “Hope is a thing with feathers”.

It’s being honest in admitting, yeah, at times we chase perfection. We want that perfect scenario, the perfect family, perfect kids, perfect draft (though I’m not sure how realistic I’m being here) and it is okay to want that.

In the chase of perfection, we shouldn’t become blind to the reality that perfection is a relative term. Not all poems that rhyme are perfect and not all perfect poems rhyme- I hope I’m making sense. And if I’m not, take it as this- you could lose your senses chasing perfection.

At the end of the day, what you’d remember most of all, what would fill the bulk of your memory is not the ending or the look of the book once you’ve written that final sentence, but the journey it took to get there. The mishaps, the spilled coffee, the messy desks and Pajama writing; it’s the smiles that curve on your lips when you recall how you ditched a friend simply because you needed to edit that first horrible draft; it’s the days when the muse decides to be your best friend and you write for all you are worth and the days when the muse takes a break and you wonder if surely, you are a writer?!

In the journey of chasing perfection, it’d do us a lot of good to remember, A perfect puzzle piece is in fact, made up of many imperfect and irregular pieces fitted together, without which it wouldn’t be possible.

This post is in response to Writer’s Quote Wednesday Writing Challenge

Of her days-

Of her days-

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She wrote, but not enough
She cried, a little too much
Her smile, remained confined
Without, reaching her eyes.

She lived not- just survived
Her hope- was growing dark
She slept, each night in hopes
A new dawn, would not arrive.

But if- given the choice
To end her life for good;
She’d struggle, and rise above,
The waves- pulling her down.

She’s sad and just away
From despair, by an inch
And that makes all the difference,
Cause “almost” means- not there yet.

She-
still writes, though not enough;
still cries, sometimes too much;
But she’s living, through sticks and stones,
And for now, that is enough.

The above image is courtesy of Jessica Alexandria

The Joy, I carried-

The Joy, I carried-

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The light of my life,
And the glint in my eye,
She is the sun who’s rays are undying.

The stars are a stretch,
When her sparks start to shine,
She is a diamond who cannot be cracked.

If the moon is a pearl
Then her face beams a thousand
My baby, my girl, the child that I carried.

Joy came through marriage,
And contentment ensued,
Till for 9 months a soul- emerged in my womb.

The glint in my eye,
My moon during dark,
My baby my girl, the joy that I carried.

The above image is courtesy of Art from my soul

If love was enough-

If love was enough-

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I believe the worst part of it all is wishing love in itself was enough, but knowing it’s not. Knowing, the same the way I know, even though the sun rises each day, it doesn’t mean it’s rays will illuminate the dark within; knowing although the storm doesn’t last forever, it is no guarantee that the destruction the storm leaves wouldn’t . In the same way, I know with certainty and clarity, without any reservations or second thoughts, that I love with you everything I’ve got, with everything I have to offer and more- but It still, would not be enough….

The above image is courtesy of Favim.com

All that you can be-

All that you can be-

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If there’s one thing I must say
Before I leave this earth, it’s this-
That the universe is large enough,
For all that you can be;
And never let a shadow cast,
It’s darkness on your dream;
Or the one who’s lived more decades,
Determine who you must be .
For my darling, life’s your ocean,
So sail it how you see fit;
They may say the tides too high,
But you’re the sailor of your ship.

The above image is courtesy of Pinterest- Dream Big

The Girl on The Street

The Girl on The Street

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It came as a curveball,
The news that they met;
A girl on their street,
Had succumbed to death;
But I thought she was happy,
They chorused all day;
And saw flashbacks of her,
With burgers and a grin;
But the truth of the darkness,
Which hovered her being,
Was placed on the status,
Of her various dps;
It was written in the poems,
Which she shared with her friends,
Who described it, “beautiful”,
And ignored its depth;
It was displayed in the redness
Of her eyes after meals,
When she came out of restrooms,
Appearing fatigued.
It was drawn on collarbones,
Poking through her skin,
And the clothes she resized,
For the waists were too big.

It came as a curveball-
News, The illness took her;
Her weight was too downscale,
She couldn’t survive;
But I thought she was happy
Was all they could say,
But for the girl on the street,
It was too late.