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.

Sometimes,
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

 

 

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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.
 
#Aug302017
 
 

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.
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.

Tried and Tired

I tried,
I tried to open up,
I tried to love,
I tried to be loved,
I tried,
I tried until I tired myself.

I saw the light at the end of every dark tunnel-
I walked through,
I saw the bright side of things that were too dark for my eyes to even open up.
I saw the water half full in every glass that was on the verge of shattering,
I saw them all,
Maybe I was that light at the end of that dark tunnel,
Maybe I was that bright side in those darkest of moments,
Maybe I was that half full glass of water, on the verge of a breakdown; 

I was,
I was a shoulder to be cried upon,
I was there when no one was.
I tried,
I was,
I loved,
I got hurt,
I got hurt,
Over and over, and over again,
It's almost funny;
Maybe I was that glass on the verge of shattering,
Maybe I was those darkest moments,
Maybe I was the dark tunnel.

I stood up head held high,
Every time I fell,
And now I am tired...
Tired of falling,
Tired of hurting,
Tired of waiting,
Tired of fixing,
Tired of wishing,
Tired of being hopeful,
Nay, 
Hope, I shall keep to myself,
For, without hope I shall not be able to live,
For, without hope, I shall just breathe,
But to truly feel the beauty of monumental breath,
I shall keep hope.

Hope,
At last,
Hope.

#August232017