By the graveyard-

By the graveyard-

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We passed by the graveyard.
An emotion- not unlike
The December weather,
Engulfed us.

The sun rays beamed on,
A piece of glass,
At the head of a sand lump-
A child’s.

Is his mother grieving?
Wishing the world,
Takes time out of its schedule,
To grieve with her,

Does she have other young ones,
Who fill her heart,
With a softening emotion,
Or does she,

look to his siblings,
And feel the overwhelming,
Feeling of his pass,
Engulf her,

Has it been long since His,
Or her pious soul,
Found its self among the,
Non-living.

Does the ache get easier?
For Mine still feels like,
a minute ago,
Since I lost him.

This Random is now on Facebook. Here’s the link to my page: Words of a random looking forward to connecting with y’all there. 

Breathing-

Breathing-

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I can breathe,
Almost;
The words
Stuck in my throat,
Flow from the tips,
Of my fingers and I
Can breathe-

The thoughts,
Forming word salad
In my Brain
Are settling,
Above the dark Mist,
Surrounding me, and I
Can breathe-

The tears,
Constantly gracing,
The skin
On my cheeks,
Have resorted
To ooze,
In the form of oxygen,
A prayer,
From my lips and I
Can
breathe-
Pray,
Wish…
This momentt, lasts 
For eternity.


I’ve got news! No I’m not writing a book. But, I just got myself a Facebook page. It’s called words of a random and i’ld really appreciate it, if you’d check it out and like and share as well. It’s going to be a full-on poetry and prose page with full length poems inserted into an image. Looking forward to connecting with y’all. Here’s the link: words of a random

Rock bottom-

Rock bottom-

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It is a horrible place
To be, where the ground,
Has rubbed against your bare
Body for so long, it becomes-
Normal? Being covered in
Dirt.

It is a horrible place
To dwell in, when darkness
Lasts more than its allotted 12
Hours, and the rays of light
Shining through becomes
The abnormal. Hope is not
Normal?

It is a horrible place
To live, surrounded by
Silence, embraced by its
Cunning arms and the sound
Of another soul, reaching out
Becomes noise. Friends become
Nuisance?

It is a horrible place
To be, where all that is wrong
Seem right, and all that is light
Appears distorted.
When an abyss, becomes
Home?
It is a horrible place
To be- alone.

I hold within me-

I hold within me-

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I am-
All made up of,
the life I’ve left;
Every cell within me,
Tainted by the touch,
Of love,
Of loss,
Of words,
All past;
I thrive on the energy
Of things come,
Now gone.

It rests,
Within my shadow,
A reflection of the girl,
Not the one I was born as,
But the girl I’d grown into,
(Body and soul);
I hold within my shadow,
A past- I cannot,
Bury.

It is-
Right alongside me,
When the sun
Graces the sky,
Till the moon tires out,
Of the darkness,
It resides with me-
My past.

It is with me,
But it is not me,
It made me,
But I am not it.
I carry it,
It doesn’t carry me,
I am made of my past,
It doesn’t control me,
I hold it,
For, It was once
a part of-
Me.

The boy by the sea-

The boy by the sea-

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His talk was as loud as,
His silence while crying;
He’d mastered the art of,
Concealing his downfalls;
When the moon graced
The sky,
You’d find him,
Under the starlight.

His smile was as bright as,
The darkness he kept hidden;
And no one would reach out,
None knew he needed healing;
When the sky turned a shade,
He could live without concealment,
You’d find him by the bank,
Alone with his reflection.

When you sight him,
By the sea,
In reply to, “how you’re feeling”.
He’d smile,
Praise his lord and add,
“I cannot count my blessings”.

In spite of the darkness,
In spite of his heart bleeding,
It could have been worse,
Is the mantra he keeps repeating.
His talk was as loud as,
His silence while crying,
His strength is reflected,
In his hope to keep on living.


P.S what had happened was, my days got mixed up yesterday. I thought it was Wednesday already when it was actually Tuesday (yes, I am that eager for the weekend to come) and hence, I accidentally posted the writers poem Wednesday, yesterday instead of today.

Writer’s Quote: Carmen Giménez Smith

Writer’s Quote: Carmen Giménez Smith

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Welcome to another writer’s quote/poem Wednesday, where I share some of my favourite poems written by other authors. Today’s featured poem is one I came across only recently, and I haven’t been able to stop reading it. My heart bleeds at it’s verses. The poem is titled bleeding heart by Carmen Giménez Smith, and as I couldn’t stop at just one poem, I can safely say she is one amazing poet.

The poem, bleeding heart, talks about an overly sympathetic individual who feels so much, in fact too much. The poem begins as a metaphor- “my heart is bleeding”, then goes on to describe all the things which make the character feel so much; bleed so much. The suffocating effect of feeling too much can be felt in the line where the writer says, “it becomes the cork of me and I choke on it.”

She goes on to further explain her predicament by referencing, she bleeds so much, sometimes, she is a raisin (a dried fruit). And then immediately afterwards, she lists some more things which make her bleed, Indicating, as long as there is a sympathetic situation, she would always feel, bleed.

I love this poem in particular because it reminds me of the current situation we are living in, so much atrocities going on in different parts of the world, and my heart bleeds for them. It bleeds for the animals being treated cruelly for no fault of theirs, the children getting displaced, the women and men oppressed and abused- my heart bleeds.

Bleeding Heart BY Carmen Giménez Smith 

My heart is bleeding. It bleeds upward and fills
my mouth up with salt. It bleeds because of a city in ruins,
the chair still warm from sister’s body,
because it will all be irreproducible. My heart
bleeds because of baby bear not finding mama bear and it bleeds
to the tips of my fingers like I painted my nails Crimson.
Sometimes my heart bleeds so much I am a raisin.
It bleeds until I am a quivering ragged clot, bleeds at the ending
with the heroine and her sunken cancer eyes, at the ending
with the plaintive flute over smoke-choked killing fields. I’m bleeding
a river of blood right now and it’s wearing a culvert in me for the blood. My heart
rises up in me, becomes the cork of me and I choke on it. I am bleeding
for you and for me and for the tiny babies and the IED-blown
leg. It bleeds because I’m made that way, all filled up with blood,
my sloppy heart a sponge filled with blood to squeeze onto
any circumstance. Because it is mine, it will always bleed.
My heart bled today. It bled onto the streets
and the steps of city hall. It bled in the pizza parlor with the useless jukebox.
I’ve got so much blood to give inside and outside of any milieu.
Even for a bad zoning decision, I’ll bleed so much you’ll be bleeding,
all of us bleeding in and out like it’s breathing,
or kissing, and because it is righteous and terrible and red.

P.s What makes your heart bleed? 

Flash Fiction: Home

Flash Fiction: Home

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Jacob watched the world below him unfold. Standing on the roof top of one of the many dilapidated buildings at 23rd Avery. The kids were playing football and would probably keep at it until the sky turned a deep red.

He watched with a ting of sadness, playing statistics in his head- only 2 out of every 7 of those kids would make it to college; most of them would have the misfortune of being jailed at least once; and thanks to the gang bangers, a few of them might not even live to celebrate their 30th birthday.

He stood, oblivious to the shouting going on below. His neighbourhood was dying, both metaphorically and literally. The violence was at a whole new peak, the buildings were collapsing, even the tree leaves had turned a weary brown.

But, he smiled. It was still his neighbourhood. Plastered on every corner were memories he had created; this “mess”, was all he had ever known. And, despite many unfavourable names it’s been called by outsiders, for him, it was simply “home”.


word count: 175. This story Is in response to flash fiction for aspiring writers photo prompt challenge, hosted by Priceless Joy, where each week we are provided with an image and are to write a 75-175 word story surrounding it. Thank you for this week’s  photo @Grant-sud

Choices-

Choices-

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Speak now or forever hold your peace.

We’ve all heard that statement in movies and reality, spoken so many times and mostly in good humor. But what happens, when those few words decide to make an appearance in the movie of our life, but not in a comic role.

How do we decide, if speaking up when our ring is about to become another’s is better than holding our peace and silence- forever. How do we weigh it? Is there even a scale for that.

How do we decide if destroying another’s fairytale is worth saving our own. Does the end justify the means in this secenerio?

What If? God forbid, what if, we weigh the odds and conclude that forever is too long a time for us to hold our peace, we muster the courage, speak the words of our heart, and they fall only on the ears of its recipient but not his heart. Would it be worth it then?

Or should we stick to mama’s saying- if he really wants you, he’d come running back even if he’s about to say I do. And if he doesn’t, no one wants a coward anyway.
But what if we wait, and- he doesn’t?

Writer’s quote: W.H. Auden

Writer’s quote: W.H. Auden

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Hello there! Welcome to another writer’s quote/ poem Wednesday where I share some of my favourite poems written by other authors. Today’s poem has to do with the overwhelming feeling of grief and mourning. I just realised that last week poem (O captain, my captain) was also regarding a similar theme. But despite the similarities in theme, the way the poems and the emotions are depicted in the two poems are completely different.

Today’s poem- stop all clocks, talks about a person who has lost someone dearly close to him. What I love about this poem is that it requires little analysis, written in simple clear words with vivid imagery. The first stanza describes what the character wants to occur now that he has suffered a terrible loss. In the second stanza, the grief is so overwhelming that the character wants the world to mourn with him. In the third stanza, he describes what the person who had passed away means to him and then finally in the last stanza, the character is so blinded with grief, he sees no light past it and wants the entire universe once again to mourn with him.

This I find so sad as the poem ends with the statement- For nothing now can ever come to any good, I pray no one dwells in such a state for a long and may we always believe in at least an atom of good to come.

Stop all clocks by W. H. Auden

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

Indulge me dear readers. According to W.H Auden, poetry is the clear expression of mixed feelings. So I’m putting this question out to you all, “what is poetry according to you?”