Silver Linings-

She wants to read about
romance, in an atmosphere
of scented roses. How to get the one
your eyes are set at; the heart’s
flutterings at the sound of a voice;
The thought of a face.

I want to write of sadness
and grief; the atmosphere of
grey clouds on a summer day. How
the mind works from the fateful day,
when the fruit of one’s womb,
Departs from earth.

I want to write about silver
linings after a stormy weather.
The ways of grief, and society’s
Alloted time stamp.
How a mind overwhelmed by
darkness, can survive another
sunrise and sunset.
I want to write about hope.

The Last Time-

Was “I love you” the last you said to them,
Was “I hate you” the last you uttered,
Did you give them a hug with compassion,
Did your face reveal clear discontent.

Did you thank them for all they’d been doing,
Did you grumble for the chores they ordered,
Did you think they were harsh and unloving,
Did you think they were raising you right.

I love you wasn’t the last word I’d spoken,
I didn’t hug them when they walked out the door,
And I waited from dusk until morning,
It was too late- they never returned.

Today, is all that we are sure of,
Tomorrow is just a probability,
Gratitude shouldn’t wait another hour,
For tomorrow- who knows if we’ll be.

Facebook Page: words of a random 

N- Nothingness

I’ve felt the arms of sadness,
wrapped around me,
Engulfing,
Pulled deep into-
its trenches;
Where light,
At first visible,
Dims without one
Realising it.

I’ve felt the soft hands of joy,
Pulsating,
Overwhelming,
Thronged into its
Never ending fantasies
Dreams,
Delusions,
Future created,
Where light and only
Light is seen,
Where darkness
Does not exist-
In that moment.

But the arms of nothingness
Cannot be compared.
The coldest of place,
The hardest of state;
A prison cell with an
open door,
Which you can’t escape.
For how can you walk out
A free man,
When you don’t even know
You’re in jail.

Resilience-

Last night,
My walls crumbled down;
The roof above me,
caved in;
My skin tightened,
Flesh upon flesh
With blood rapidly pulsating.
This must be it,
I thought to myself;
This can’t be it,
I declared;
A brewing storm,
On my insides-
My throat, my eyes-
Blazing.

Tonight,
It all seems distant past;
There’s something
To be said about-
Resilience.
Last night I said-
This can’t be it;
And my Lord,
He got me through it.

The above image was gotten from Pinterest

My kind of sadness-

There’s a sadness,
      Which begins-
           In the quiet of dark;

There’s a sadness,
      Which peaks when-
            there’s noise abound;

There’s a sadness,
       From which sleep-
             Is a sought for solace;

There’s a sadness,
       Which grips me
              -wide awake.

Then there’s the sadness,
        From which my –
                 poetry originates.

It’s that sadness,
        I cling to-
               During life’s turbulences.

When I viewed my “serched terms” recently, I discovered that someone searched for “sadness”. So, here goes.

the above image is courtesy of Me2go.tumblr

If you dare-

You can start this very moment,
To make this life your own,
Erase the dusted part of you,
So you can create your home
There’d be cobwebs,
There’d be to roaches,
There’d be traps to hold you back,
In the form of,
Hurtful memories,
Screaming- this, here, is your life.

But honey,
This can’t be your life,
A life that’s riddled in despair,
Where sadness has no comfort,
And love has turned wingless,
So sweep off all those places,
Where the past keeps hiding in,
Then use those wings,
You know you have,
And soar out and be free.

For there’s more to life,
You will find-
Once you dare to take the risk.

The above image is courtesy of Pinterest/Hexdragon.com

Melancholy-

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… 

Short story: 2 am Conversations

“I don’t want that,” “I don’t want it,” she says again. The second time, it is only a whisper. “Don’t want what?” I ask, sitting up straight and looking towards her direction. But it’s too late, a gentle snore signals to me that sleep has overtaken her yet again. Her sleep talking is back though she doesn’t believe it.

I shake my head a bit and let a slight smile form on my face. For someone who speaks counted words during the day, she sure speaks a lot at night in her sleep. She wouldn’t believe me. “Don’t be silly” she’d say, “I do not talk in my sleep” and with that, she’d shrug her shoulders and storm off.

It’s funny, how different people can be at certain hours of the day. For some, who they are between 12-6 am and 6-12 pm can be as different as North and South poles. The other night, Carla awoke sobbing. The tears trickled down her face though she was still In her fetal sleeping position. She just- shivered and let the tears flow. It was all I could do to convince her everything was going to be okay. By morning, it never even happened; at least to Carla.

Speaking about that night’s event would be a mistake on my part- Carla would never believe it. She wasn’t one to cry, still isn’t. A gun would have to be placed on the temporal part of her skull for her to squeeze out a little tear. And even then, all that might be gotten from her would be a “you gotta be kidding me” smirk.

I’m starting to think this is more than a simple case of sleep talking. She’s like a bottle of coke, filled to the brim and just waiting to be opened at night In order for the gas to flow out. The things she’s told me; I mean, said In her sleep, somedays, I just want to cry with her as she shivers in fear and speaks with a hurtful tone. And yet, her eyes are still always closed.

One more night, that’s all I’m giving her. After which, willingly or unwillingly, I’m taking her to to see someone- running, walking or crawling. I don’t care if I have to drag her all the way there, but she needs to talk to someone. Enough of the 2 am conversations. Now I’m starting to think, maybe choosing psychology as a major wasn’t such a great idea. The sight of Carla alone is breaking me. Heaven help my soul.

IMAGE CREDIT