By 9 pm I decided never to write
Of what I feel
Isn't it too common?
Feeling poetry?
What could I write about?
Heartbreaks, lost hopes,
The bright side of dark jokes;
The persistent disappointment by men.
Oh no I'm back again
Writing about commonplace woes
In commonplace tongue
I keep writing what I feel
Should I write about what I've done?
Nothing there. Empty.
Recoiling into spirals again
Stop. Set free. If only we could help it.
(The permanent disappointment
Of the self.)
It's way past 12,
Midnight sleeps with me
Tell me something so I don't have to write.
Tell me something,
Quickly.
I must spend the night
Tomorrow I'll wake up, I promise
And I'll write about new things to think
Tonight let me be all about
My metaphored sorrows
Translucent smiles
The gaps left behind in unspoken goodbyes
And such things that flow rivers down my eyes
Such things I carry in my small womanly pocket.
I worry I cannot see beyond what's right in front of my gaze
I worry I see and I know so little
My words are bound to fail
I rhyme, and I know they don't aid memory
Only makes my voice forced
I can't do away with it, where will my words go?
Scatter, yes, they will.
Every day I scatter them
Every day I open my mouth
I do not wish to speak
On my writing table I sit to seek
Meanings.
I cook my words to flavour them
Add endings and beginnings.
Yet I get lost, so often
Did I just burn the dish?
Oh the stench is so rotten
I can do better.
Or so I'd like to think.
Walk with me, till the end of time.
A drunk guy sings aloud before us
We laugh, is he in love or in pain?
And we answer, aren't they the same?
The river flows swiftly along our path
The moon is his bride
We write poems for each other
And recite every line
Like a pleasure torn from a deathbed
Our love is precious
So are we, bathed in glee
We tie our hearts tight, brimming in smiles
We have never been so free
We're so beautiful, how we've grown
I fill my eyes with what I see,
(I can never get enough
We're never too much, in love)
Billboards glow afar in the city,
They try to sell us happiness
I point out all the spelling mistakes I see
As usual
You laugh and roll your eyes,
As usual
I love the joy we make
We don't need to say what we feel
Our hearts are clocked alike
We can read each beat, in sync.
He was singing with sleep in his mouth
My head was full of waking dreams
Our arms melted into skin in love
My sleeplessness was soothed by it
I asked him who he was
He said he has always been,
Sometimes the drop of yellow paint
On the dusky city sky
Sometimes a bubble of nostalgia
Of familiar roads I pass by
Sometimes nothing more
Than a ray of hope
That there will be another day
Or maybe a poem I wrote
Thinking about things adore
Or complaining about those I hate
He sang to me until I fell asleep
Blessed me with dreams to dream
I don't know who he is or will be
I know he will give me wings
Wear a brown shirt for me
I'll find a white flower for you
With petals broad enough for me to scribble
"I love you"
In black ink
Or maybe with some kohl.
Will you let me put some under your eyes?
Put the flower in your chest pocket
You've always loved lilies, I know,
And flash a smile at me
So that I can call you my
Textbook of love.
Remember that tattered book
With brown cover
Short stories and poems inside
English Reader Class IX?
No, I didn't know you then.
I didn't know what love was
But I knew what it might be.
Early butterflies in my belly
For a boy I sat beside
And this one poem in that one brown book.
"If thou must love me, let it be for nought
Except for love's sake only."
Now you, you, yes, you
My book of poetry,
My song of love,
I love you for love's sake only.
You are the textbook definition
And I can read between your lines
This book can have a miserable ending
It can break my heart into bloody shreds
But I'll read it again and again
My brown textbook man
Look at me with your smudgy kohl eyes
Consume me in your gaze
Devour me in your lines
While the music keeps playing
And the evening is bashful
I want to be a verse in your pages
While the fan whirls in this room
And the curtains bathe in dusky gold
I want to curl up inside your stanzas
We'll stay as one until words fall apart
Until it's too dark to read
Until the end of poetry.
I like looking at my half-lit face A vapid reflection on the bookshelf glass I see the knowledge gained So that some knowledge is lost Outside my window I can reach out I’ll almost touch the blank wall But it doesn’t reflect me Not even a half-frown or a straight smile.
To the poets who can sing of stories In the breath of history I am all ears in appreciation But where am I in the conquered wombs And the raging warriors Where am I in the forests of civilisation How did I swim in the stories And emerge with a parched skin?
I am closing my soul to every word Hosting parties for them as guests I am not the modern living Nor the past undead.
mimimusing 