Broken Bottles

The rigged edges of the broken bottle
glimmer in my hand like diamonds;
the glass cuts through my life like diamonds;
I know which shrapnel loves which vein,
how the vein colors each piece and
the shadows they cast when I hold them
against the dying sun makes me want to
unlearn the fine line between pleasure and pain,
all over again.

The broken bottles cut through my skin
as easily as a knife through ice cubes- yes,
it isn’t easy; my skin adjusts and readjusts,
it trembles, it shakes- an earth predicting its quake;
I have to dig and I have to press; it pierces
and pain strikes me like a thousand comets
attacking my skin in symphony; the effect makes
me want to separate my skin from muscles;
body from body.

The skin gives away like scissors slicing paper,
the pain faded away, a dull throbbing at surface
as warmth gushes out, red painting my skin
with the passion of an artist working on an eye
of his favorite muse, the efforts of a poet
to find the word that can convey his veneration
to his sweetheart; the pain ebbs- it spreads
to every cell like smoke on a windy day
and I collapse, the broken bottle slipping
from my hand.

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How The Rain Makes Me Feel

I wish I could feel like how rain feels,
On a warm, steadfast night
and the way it makes the world feel,
at rest, in motion, just quite right.
I wish for the patter of the rain,
and the silence that it casts around,
that peace of mind for an infinitesimal moment
That is lost, and at moments like these, found.
I wish the world unites as it does
when drops fall from high above us,
Makes me feel so wanted, gives a reason to stay,
For me, rain is belonging and it is trust.
It is how the things that leave us
have their own way of returning to us,
even when the blackest clouds block their way
It’ll make its way, it always does.
It made me feel like magic and stardust,
and my beating heart once stood still,
it folded in my hands and was lost,
leaving me with memories and goodwill.
It went through my soggy chest,
and left me feeling cold and lost,
and then as soon as I dried my breast,
it left me free and contained and breathless.
So maybe, the rain does wonders to us, the world
it leaves us free and tired and guarded and loved.

About Untold Love

Inspiration to write by Sylvia Plath, Mad Girl’s Love Song’s excellent reading.

I think the city grey has seeped into my soul, 
I knead my eyes with my knuckles, trying to be awake,
alive, though I have never once felt so antique, so old.

The bells ring constantly in my ears and, expectedly bold,
Paranoia seeps through the uninviting demeanor;
head conjures up images, unforgotten and forlorn.

A sweaty hand across the cheek, weak eyes dramatically rolled,
there is pleasure in the throbbing, feverish forehead,
Although, there isn’t a part that seems even remotely untolled.

Blackness is inviting, darkness bring the stars (those old
taunts), haunting the night, with a ray of hope
And somewhere, melancholy sighs then, with a head hot and heart cold.

Perhaps that’s what I got for having loved untold:
Broken hearts, wasted murmurs, they weave through the lovely night
And when the day comes, murmurs disappear, hearts repair,
and we go drunk into our loveless, snowy, slushed lives. 

A Word After Goodbye To You

A strike through the heart,
what a better place to start?
or a plunge in the chest,
and that’ll take care of the rest,
A stab in the back, hit on the skull
There were a hundred ways
To see me die but did you have,
to break my heart and say goodbye?

I barely had enough of your supple skin
When our hands entwined,
your head on my chest, our hearts akin,
your laughter dancing through the room,
melodious, ringing, one of a kind,
would chase out the sadness and the gloom.

How often would I complain
about the deadlines, your demands (sometimes),
and if I could ever pass through those moments again,
I would kiss you over and again.
I would buy you whatever you need,
Give you my time, get you books to read,
Or maybe write a story, ours, like you wanted,
And I’ll read it, because by you, I’m enchanted.

How about an idea, we go through the photographs,
Maybe you’ll remember together, how perfect we were,
And I’ll see where it all went wrong,
And mend my ways, and try to change,
For right now, we are miles apart,
And I’d like to change that, before we become strange.

Every step I take, echoes in the cosmos,
a cosmos, empty now that you have left.
Have I never told you, about how hollow,
you’ve left me, an empty, emotionless body, cover?
Yet, even if it supposedly took a gazillion pieces of my heart,
I was, still am, and will forever be your lover.

“For Humans”

death-painting

There was once an old lady,
who had lived all and was waiting
for her death, with a troubled breath,
As she stood by the door,
every day more devastating.
She’d lost her husband to the land,
and there was no other name bearer,
who could live to her legacy and
be told in the bards, as the son of one
to whom death was the most dear.

Each day with a bated breath, she
looked forward to her final visitor,
But he never came and she always cried
because she really thought
it really was her time.
Her neighbors, her crazy kept at a distance
but that didn’t stop them to whisper,
“Ah that old, mental, moronic lady
Who is she waiting for to take her crazy,
a demonic mister?”

But somehow, things changed, as mostly she,
she realized they weren’t waiting for her
As much as she was for death,
And things changed, and soon the neighbor
kids played until they were panting with breath.
She made cookies and called for tea,
all the fancy dressed, beautiful ladies,
And soon her garden was bright and gay
And loneliness, she barred and mostly
was like a bright day in May.

But one day, when all the ladies
Came to her house for their tea
and the daily gossip they all shared,
they found the door locked, and her house
strangely, dead, and lifeless, and bare.
Worried, they rushed and somehow
broke the door and they entered,
upon a lifeless host, they cried,
The old widow, lying on the floor,
with a smile on her face, had died.

They looked around and some rushed 
out to call for help, but one, 
spotted a piece of paper, on the bed.
They shrieked, and some stood stunned
and then, cried in horror; 
it was from Death.

“She was a poor sod who thought, 
she’d lived life to the fullest,
Oh, what a fool humans are, 
They don’t know what is the best.
Waiting for me instead when you
should be making memories,
living life with love and people who are dear.
So that once you die, there are no fears
of having not taken the chance,
the chance to be alive after death,
to be alive in others’ memories and hearts.
And that’s why I kept her waiting,
for she didn’t know what’s right,
But fear not, my ladies,
She came to me with a smile,
and looked down upon all of you,
and waved a goodbye;
she sprinkled on some pixie dust,
And rests now, with her husband,
very happy and content, high above.”

Boom!

Blithely, I count the purchases on my hand, and feel a rush of excitement
To prepare food for the party at my father’s retirement.
He doesn’t have a clue, I grin with glee,
He will be so happy, we will all see.
A full roast of pork, and the succulent gravy- Boom, boom!
Something blasts, sending shards of metal and glass across the room
The image of my father’s face burned into my memory
And the thought of how his party will happen at the cemetery.

Promise, I did not want to go to the concert, and I did tell my friends.
They persuaded, knowing little that it would bring our end.
And yet, I proceeded, to make them happy.
Not wanting to abandon my friends and then be crappy.
I called my boyfriend’s cell phone and told him of my plans.
He said he’s sick. He did not know it then,
That we had said our ‘I love you’s, our last time it would be
As one of us would be dead before the nocturnal hour in the city of intimacy.

Please, I don’t wish to go,” I begged with my mother to let me skip,
My school, for once in my life, and of course she flipped.
“No, you must go,” she insisted for I had my religion exam today,
And she had painstakingly listened to Prophet’s sermons yesterday.
“Don’t kill, don’t betray, forgive and always be kind,”
These thoughts are going on in my mind,
As during the test, they barged into the room and opened fire in our school (and hearts),
I wish my mother had listened to me from the start.

Mum said to send her pictures of the sea from the hotel roof,
With myself in it, and the lovely evening; I’d agreed, appearing aloof.
Fulfilling her wishes, I was descending to the lobby
Of the hotel, to visit the Gateway next to the Sea,
When I heard the loud noise just across the hall,
And felt myself collapse of the floor with each one and all.
There is something wrong, I feel palpable in the air,
I lose consciousness as I see my mum call on the local number here.

My new job is in the country that hosted the famous Tomatina, 
The first time I am abroad from my home country of Argentina.
I was enchanted and delighted as I stepped in the commuter train
Not exploring the capital city would’ve rendered my visit, vain.
I glanced left and right and in and out and up and about,
And in my occupation, was unaware and didn’t hear what the others doubted.
Suddenly I saw some panic and some people shouted, something had happened,
I was flung to the floor, something on my leg had me shackled.

The entire world sits tensely, for once in solidarity,
As the cries of the wounded and the killed echoes through the air.
We just sit and take in the live news, in horror and in pity,
We sit in front of our screens and stare.
As a thousand lives are destroyed, and they leave a stain,
That refuses to fade away with time; only darkens again,
when something similar happens and we are all dumbfounded,
paralyzed into action, since we and our loved ones are safe and counted.
Yes, there is fear, and there is rage, and yes there is pain for those whose lives have altered,
forever, and nothing can ever bring them to even remotely normal,
we can all pray for them lives and pray for the world,
and pray for the monsters that we have nurtured.
Or we can take a stand and remember to fight,
against what is wrong, and for the right.
We can raise and voice and we can make a change,
in ourselves by making our humanity resurface again,
In spite of the fear and the doubt, we shall fight
Against our blood, united for once, for the right.

Monsters.

*

Every night, before I sleep,
I hear the sound of the child weep,
I hear melancholy run deep
in the sound from my beneath.

Every night I wish to ease,
it’s pain, for it to be at ease,
But just like my fear fear of monsters beneath,
That don’t allow me to under, peep,
Does it too, have some under the crease?

Every night before I sleep,
I vow to end all its miseries,
By looking under my bed, fear be buried,
But, everyday, I fail spectacularly.

What stops me, the cry in its voice,
or the fear in mine, I have no choice
To help the tormented, I couldn’t start.
Who said anything about monsters under our beds,
when they live in our hearts?

*

(By the way, go follow TWPM at their instagram @theworldpastme for anything and everything.)