H- Hope (took my hand)

H- Hope (took my hand)

IMG_5407

Hope took my hand
And said-
Let’s walk a while,
At first I was unsure.

It subtly webbed,
Our fingers-
I couldn’t, them, retract.

With the sound of just,
My heart thumps-
We walked for miles at length.

I tried to slip,
It held me back;
Without making a sound.

Hope took my hand,
Whilst despair,
Was wrapped around my arms.

It gently made
It’s way until,
Despair could not abound.

Hope took my hand,
We walked a while,
And that’s made all the difference.

G- Grief

G- Grief

IMG_5406

They’d tell you they’re sorry,
While you stare at the floor;
Wondering how on earth,
A part of you is now gone;
Their words sound so foreign,
Till your love’s name comes up;
Every mention- a drill,
Burning a hole in your heart,

They’d tell you they’re sorry,
And you wonder what for-
It wasn’t their fault,
Heck it wasn’t anyone;
You envision them strolling to
The arms of their love;
Looking down through welled eyes,
At the emptiness of yours.

They’d tell you they’re sorry,
And that they understand,
But you know they cannot fathom
The loss you incurred,
So you nod as they murmur
Words, meant to comfort-
Praying to God, he Is at much
Much more peace, than you are.

Writing because-

Writing because-

IMG_5364.JPG

“It’s not just the writing”, she said,
It’s the looking back at a formerly white page, now transformed into a confluence of rugged slanting black ink. Words, which were formerly a jumble in your head. And you stare at the piece of paper, wondering who on Earth could possible read that, jumble.
You crumble it up, dumping it at the back of your room, the back of your thoughts until…

yes, until, someday. Days, months, maybe even years. You find that crumbled piece of paper you had denounced into rubbish. A forgotten piece of work. Your eyes move across the page, word after word, line after line and everything you ever wrote down is exactly what you need to hear at the moment. And the words you had once upon a time sought refuge with cannot contain the bucket of emotion brewing up within you. What you once thought was rubbish, looks like a masterpiece. How time changes everything.

——“nothing is ever wasted”, she said, “so write today, not just for the present, because not everyone will appreciate it, but because someday, those same words might be exactly what you’d need to hear”.

Night is not just night-

Night is not just night-

IMG_5362

Night is not just night,
She says,
It’s the end of wear from
Another day,
Its the want of every tired limb,
To graze the bed
And be engulfed within,

Night is not just night,
she says,
It marks the start of day
for a few,

When the birds arrive,
And the sun depart-
To make a living,
They depart into night.

Night is not just night,
She says,
It’s the time when memories,
Sneak a peak-
Appearing as droplets down
Our cheeks,
With the knowledge, that darkness
Would shield their view.

Night is not just night,
She says,
It’s the time some pray,
The time some waste,
The time some rest,
Or the mind comes awake,
But night is not “just” Night.

Writer’s Quote: Personal

Writer’s Quote: Personal

image.png

I was planning on skipping this week’s writers quote post because it has been a roller coaster kind of week, as evidenced by my lack of posts. But then, something happened today which I took personally. I know I shouldn’t take it personal because it’s really that small, but guess what, I am human and it hurt me and I took it personally. It’s almost midnight so hopefully, tomorrow, I wouldn’t feel the same way. But for now, here is a poem by Tony Hoagland titled Personally

Don’t take it personal, they said;
but I did, I took it all quite personal—

the breeze and the river and the color of the fields;
the price of grapefruit and stamps,

the wet hair of women in the rain—
And I cursed what hurt me

and I praised what gave me joy,
the most simple-minded of possible responses.

The government reminded me of my father,
with its deafness and its laws,

and the weather reminded me of my mom,
with her tropical squalls.

Enjoy it while you can, they said of Happiness
Think first, they said of Talk

Get over it, they said
at the School of Broken Hearts

but I couldn’t and I didn’t and I don’t
believe in the clean break;

I believe in the compound fracture
served with a sauce of dirty regret,

I believe in saying it all
and taking it all back

and saying it again for good measure
while the air fills up with I’m-Sorries

like wheeling birds
and the trees look seasick in the wind.

Oh life! Can you blame me
for making a scene?

You were that yellow caboose, the moon
disappearing over a ridge of cloud.

I was the dog, chained in some fool’s backyard;
barking and barking:

trying to convince everything else
to take it personal too.

Have you ever taken things personally when it’s probably trivial and you know you shouldn’t take it personal too?

The above image is courtesy of Behappy.me

If love was enough-

If love was enough-

image

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

Melancholy-

Melancholy-

image

How she missed those days,
When the weight of a heartbreak, of not being loved back was the worst tragedy she’d ever faced;
When cuddled pillows and soaked sheets were the gateway to peaceful dreams;
When large bowls of dark chocolate scoop ice creams were an Instant cure to anything…

How she missed those days,
When laughter felt genuine because it was;
When tears hurt for reasons she could put into words;
When she went to bed with the worst of pains, knowing, knowing for a fact it will get better with the coming dawn;

How she missed those days,
When reality was a beautifully crafted fairytale;
When nights were a beauty and her eyes twinkled at the sight of stars;
When being fine didn’t seem like a far fetched wish and happiness wasn’t history.

        And all she yearned, was for someone to say, I feel the same way too… 

Not a writer-

Not a writer-

image.jpeg

To the one who reads my poems and praises them behind my back. I heard all about you today. No names were mentioned, but, it had to be you. We haven’t spoken in forever, we used to talk everyday, remember?  I hear you want to know how, I’m sorry but there Is no how… I just read and write. I know, it might not make much sense to you, it doesn’t make much sense to me either. I’m not a writer… I just write.

You made my day, and through this blabbering, that’s all I really want to say. I know you didn’t say it to my face, maybe you couldn’t. Why? Is a question for another day. For now, all I have to say is thank you.

You may not read this… I hope you do.

Lock and Key-

Lock and Key-

image

There are times when she feels a burning desire to tell you of all that aches within. She knows you will understand, but… And that “but” is the bump on the road jolting her back from divulging to you. The fear, the inevitability that some day, one day, the words she trusts you with would spill from your tongue unrestrained; the truth she hands over to you lock and key would be employed as a weapon, your weapon against her.
                                  It wouldn’t be the first time…
And for that reason, dear friend, she knows she should tell you of all that aches within… But she can’t.

The above image is courtesy of Poetrygrrl.com