Words & Paragraph

Your words,
Were tinted with roses made of glass,
Words that made me feel loved;
You became my many chapters,
Though you left after a paragraph,
And what paragraph it was,
Epic and beautiful.
Gravity was not to be blamed,
That thirst quenchable paragraph had it all,
How was I not supposed to fall for you?
Those rose-tinted words,
That epic and beautiful paragraph,
Had it all,
This is where I made the fall,
But you were too afraid to catch me at all,
Like a fallen star,
I fell,
But I am not to be wished upon,
For the pain,
Is too strong it’s worth.



The Flute

As a child,
His father played a tune so beautiful,
For him to fall asleep,
After a day of playing in the street,
He was happiest when he played for him.

He would fall asleep on his father’s lap so warm,
Looking at the stars that glowed full of hopes and dreams,
Other nights,
He would fall asleep on the lap of his Mother,
Whose warm hands perfumed of paddy field,
Such was his world,
Small, yet had the happiness of the entire world.

#September272017 #MinutePoetry



Fire, Part I

He was a breath of fresh air,
Even with a broken heart,
His love was deeper than any,
She could see it,
She could feel it,
She could believe it,
For she was a broken soul too.
It is said that when a loving heart is broken,
Too many times,
They don’t give up until they do for the happiness of another,
Until their souls catch fire,
That burns them with agony,
With despair,
Hope becomes a sharp thorn,
Grown with poison,
Hope haunts them,
Drowning them in their own pain,
She was that thorn,
Grown with poison,
But never born with.
Pain turns into agonizing story
Tears turn into haunted painting,
Screams turn into grievous poetry.
But, he was different,
His soul was in passionate agony,
Burnt by the one he loved so dearly,
She could see it,
She could feel it,
She could believe it,
She could love him forever,
For she was a broken soul, too.
Pulling them together,
Near the passionate flame,
For once in her life,
She felt happy to feel the warmth of that flame,
She felt at home,
She felt at peace,
For once in her life,
This was going to be a happier story,
This was going to be a beautiful poetry,
This was going to be a peaceful painting.
She could see it,
She could feel it,
She could believe it,
She could love him forever,
For she was a broken soul, no more.

The Writer and The Poet

There are moments in a day,
Where her heart cries out soft tears of painful love,
Love for the one,
The one who wrote from his heart,
The one who was the beautiful art.
The one for whom her love grows,
Every moment he is missed,
Every moment he is remembered.

Has he forgotten her?
In his love, she fell,
And she is still falling.
Since, then her heart has been an empty shell,
Maybe a lonely hell.
Maybe she is in love with the idea of having someone to miss,
Maybe she is in love with the idea of going through the pain just to remember him,
Maybe…maybe she is in love with the memories that is more of a dream,
The excruciating emptiness in her heart,
Carries certain heaviness that somehow makes her feel calm.
Irony, could be another name,
How could she feel empty and yet feel so heavy?
How could she feel calm and yet so much in pain?
How could she be full of love and yet feel so empty?
Maybe to create her poetry she needs to remember to miss him, The Writer.
Maybe she needs to feel that she is still breathing in his memories.
Maybe...maybe she feels so lost, his memories are the only way to find herself.

A song takes her back to him,
Back to those moments when they shared happiness, and love,
To the world, she was the happiest of souls,
To herself, the lost soul;
She would take the pain of the broken hearted,
She would give them the love they needed,
She knew exactly how it felt to have a heart broken,
Yet, she knew, there would be no one for her,
To feel her pain,
To feel her sorrow,
So, she drowned herself in her own words of sorrow.