I tried, I tried, every single day
I lived, I wished I wanted to live
but I also wished to live a little less,
for despite my life was very recent,
it had unexpectedly darkened
by a cloud of thunderstorm that refused
to condense and rain.
So I watched, I watched in fear,
I watched as thunder shook
my fragile little heart of a house,
and darkened my house by noon;
the wind wolfed outside
and blew the candles I lit
inside, the lantern outside.
I wept, I wept, as days passed by,
I wept as the wind blew off my roof-
the little warmth left abandoned me-
first drops of the corralling clouds
drowsed my home thoroughly;
hours later, when the raindrops faded,
frost nestled in crevices of my heart.
I felt, I felt the numbness creep,
I felt it slither across the floor,
and it climbed over onto the walls,
and drape it across the high ceiling,
shutting me in, and everything else
out. The dark and the cold
never abandoned me.
I fell, I fell, as the they collapsed,
I fell as the darkness and cold
crushed over me, crushed my hopes;
I could never stand; their weight
crushed my bones, and yet,
I willed myself to walk, for I
should be fine- but I was wrong.
I jump, I jump, for one last time,
I jump to escape from my life.
Another one of my poem’s from the poetry workshop by The Climber.
So I sit down to write an honest poem,
with bitterness running through me like blood
and it bothers me that my work
is not as good as the others.
Still I try to write and topics
course through my head- terrorism
and beauty and life and anxiety and
obesity and confidence and college-
and yet a single thought nags my mind
that I will never be as good as others,
my poetry (my pride) will never equal others
and that perhaps the
only thing I thought I was good at,
is just not enough.
All the time I thought that my inability
to talk and make friends
and dress to impress
and carry myself with ease and grace
and paint or sing or dance
or even make me worth remembering
was somehow compromised
by my ability (and a rather good one)
to write and impress upon, by my words.
All the late nights (and days and evenings and afternoons)
spent drowning in tears
and surviving on coffee,
the lofty pen saying things that the
mouth never dared to,
about betrayal and loyalty,
about depression and sadness,
about lies and truth
about sex and love,
about politics and drama,
about every damn thing that happened in life-
all those nights mount to nothing,
they were futile,
as useless as the nights I dreamt
of writing the most beautiful things in the world
(and the days at the park and evenings at the pub
and afternoons in classes).
And thus, with a feeling of self loathe
and desperation to create something
(hopefully memorable), I vent out
what is inside me, words slipping through
the tips of my fingers
into the keys, turning to binaries,
in zeroes and ones, appearing as I type
on the screen; the bitterness
diluting with every word that flows out
until all that is left is a somewhat emotionally
numb shell that hopes
this is perhaps enough to be
just enough, that perhaps
the naked, vulnerable front that has
been put forth is enough to be just good.
You said you wished to be
the greatest poet ever and
set to write the most
beautiful poem ever written
to immortalize, not in the
sands of time, for they fade
with time, but in the
rocks of centuries, your muse,
Me. And though today your
calloused hand lies cold and
dead, and the exquisite
smile your godly face adorned
is bereft of any affection, just
the ghost of what lay there once,
and the hazel eyes that made
me feel like the only girl in
the world are shut close are
hopefully, at peace. I
move silently as if I am
the one who left, across the room
to the papers that lay scattered
on your desk, my name written
on them. I open them and see a spectre
of words, beautifully written
in a variety of inks, some of
which is blotched and some of
it is cut hastily and in between
the wordly chaos, I find the
most beautiful lines ever written.
As my eyes well up with
tears, I think how you wrote
the greatest poem ever,
though just for me and how you lied,
immortalizing me in just your
memories, that will ironically
be buried in the sands of,
not time, but the earth,
like your mortal self.
My love for you is like the sky,
It envelops all the other feelings.
And you are to me, like the sun.
A small piece of you is enough
To illuminate my entire life.
For day 3, my quote is more of an Urdu poem from the movie Zindagi Na Milegi Dobara, but the poem is so inspiring that I would love it to be my last day challenge. This is a poem titled “Toh Zinda Ho Tum” and has been written by renowned poet Javed Akhtar whose poetry is absolutely stunning, probably one of the most prolific poets of Urdu and Hindi.
Dilon mein tum apni betabiyan leke chal rahe ho.
Toh zinda ho tum!
Nazar mein khwaabon ki bijliyan leke chal rahe ho
Toh zinda ho tum!
Hawa ke jhonkon ke jaise aazad rehna seekho
Tum ek dariya ke jaise, leharon mein behna seekho
Har ek lamhe se tum milo khole apni baahein
Har ek pal ek naya samaa dekhiye
Jo apni aankhon mein hairaniyan leke chal rahe ho
Toh zinda ho tum!
Dilon mein tum apni betabiyan leke chal rahe ho
Toh zinda ho tum!
If you carry impatience in your heart then you are alive
If you carry dreams in your eyes then you are alive
Learn to live like the free waves of wind
Learn to flow like the sea does as waves
Receive every moment in life with open arms
Every moment is a new beginning seeing with your eyes
If you carry surprise in your eyes then you are alive
If you carry impatience in your heart then you are alive.
Translation credits go to: https://urduwallahs.wordpress.com/2013/10/20/dilon-mein-tum-apni-betaabiyan-leke-chal-rahe-ho-toh-zinda-ho-tum/
Have you ever heard something so marvellous and fascinating and inspiring and peaceful and hopeful and relaxing and just flawless? And with its perfect synchronization with the movie scenes, it was an out of the world experience. In fact, all throughout the movie, Farhan’s character Imraan recites such beautiful poetry that you are spellbound. Certainly Javed Akhtar at his best.
This concludes my 3 Day 3 Quote Challenge. I would like to nominate Cynic because I know she loves things like these, Anoop because he’s funny and Yusra, who is a poet herself, and I know that she’d enjoy it.
I hope you had equally as much fun as I had looking for quotes and poetry like this. Have a happy weekend!
Put a stop to your dirty minds, readers. Let me have my share of say.
I created a challenge! Some time ago, I had mentioned in one of the posts here that I would be hosting some challenges, contests and competitions for the bloggers’ community. This is the first of that lot, The F- Challenge. This was invented while I was sitting at my coaching class, doing Maths, and rethought upon while travelling.
The rules of this challenge are:
1. Thank the person who nominated you.
2. Write a prose of five lines, in which every line should start and end with a word that starts from ‘F’.
3. Keep a link of the original F- Challenge in the post, so that the creator may get a pingback.
4. This challenge is open to anyone who sees it, or reads a F- Challenge post from someone.
5. Nominate 7 other bloggers for this challenge.
The nominees for this challenge are:
I took the liberty of being the creator of this challenge to nominate many people, haha 😀 Anyhow, to all the nominees, best of luck. To all those who aren’t nominated, all the best! I hope you have fun.
Look forward to seeing your posts.
P.S. Close to 300 followers:D
The sunlight creeps into the room, like a thief in the night.
Her position is pitiful.
Can’t be free when it’s her time.
Can’t be free overtime.
She only wants someone to accept her, appreciate her,
Appreciate her persistence, diligence and loyalty.
Turning up, failing not a single day.
Yet, all they do is point put her imperfections.
And she takes them all, never replying to them once.
They want her a little, but not too much.
And either way, she loses.
What should she do? Stay silent,
Even when she believes that
Vengeance is sweet?
This is her dilemma.
Her principles and beliefs one side
And her conscience on other.
She was built with words.
Her strength was in numbers.
Her allegiance to the roots of all
She never felt happy, truly satisfied
Until she knew that her words
Hadn’t hurt anyone.
She collapsed in a asphyxiating
Mass of words
Because their roots were toxic.
And later like a phoenix from
The ashes, she rose
And flew far away
To a place where brevity of words
She’d heard in that place,
Each word had its own purpose, existence.
Now she thought, oh how silly,
That her end that had once been.
Someone, she thought, should see her.