Sometimes you feel like pouring a bucketful of ice on your head or shrink to the size of your toenail or drop pills into your mouth—whether to numb or to feel you cannot tell. And one day, one after the other, you want to do all three.
Words take their route from the heart to the fingers onto the screen, unsympathetic, only covering space.
What a funny way to fight.
I close my eyes and consciously direct my mind to rest. Settle, nerves. Breathe. It’s okay. And while they are closed, I let them see just black. Black that is absence but black that is peaceful right now. Breathe. There’s nothing to worry about, you know that. You are used to this.
The air is actually fresh and not bitter. There’s no weight on my chest, or maybe just a bit. Isn’t it funny how you have started to visualise him when he’s not actually here? Is it? However, this is just a phase and phases change. Like people change and well, they don’t come back like that. You will learn it with time. It’s been a lot but just some more.
Sigh.
Open now.
“You—you stayed?”
A collaborative heartspill on words and wordsnot.
To pencils,
who have always stayed by man’s side
enabling expression of emotions
and their extermination.
The pencils which,
whine not whence you need them at two
in the morning or say four, sleep not without you
safely tucked in bed.
Pencils that die inch by inch,
tending an artist’s turmoil or a writer’s ruckus
with a smoke of grey or graphite crushed,
and designs– oh such!
Pencils. Do you see not how they aid
an ailing heart, a studious kid, a busy clerk?
Out on paper, they run until you’re tired
resting only in your nearest drawer after work.
Written in response to today’s poetry challenge which asked us to write an ode to something in our “drawer”.
Can you draw hatred?
‘Draw hatred?’
Yes, hatred!
‘No, how do we draw it?’
Like this!
I showed her what I had made.
‘What is this?’
This is hatred.
‘This is hatred?’,
She would repeat.
Yes, hatred.
‘And?’
And Anger.
And all those questions,
Those disturb me.
So I have poured here,
On this once-a-blank sheet,
All that was inside me.
All burning questions,
And hatred,
And anger,
Agony,
Miseries,
Mishaps,
Memories.
It is a canvas of my thoughts.
A harsh painting.
A disrupted photo.
A broken vase.
Numerous fragments,
You will fail to count them.
These lines,
Are not just lines.
These spots,
Are really blots.
Blots,
That made my life so ugly.
These sharp edges,
Are the knifes,
Those were used to kill me.
‘Kill you?’
Yes!
The swords of words,
Impertinent words,
Killing words,
Words that took my life,
‘You are alive!’
No, I am not!
Can you see me alive?
Living is not breathing!
LIVING IS NOT JUST BREATHING!
I am breathing,
I am not alive.
I AM DEAD!!!
These colorful dresses that I wear,
I see them black.
This home,
Is my coffin.
This world is my grave!
I am not alive!
My life is this broken vase,
Fragments scattered,
Here and there,
I see them everywhere.
These blots,
They itch!
These scratches,
They give pain.
You would now say,
That I have gone insane!
But I am not insane!
I am just a dead soul,
Compelled to live here,
Until my benefactor,
My death returns!
I want to die literally,
So that no one could see me,
No one could point out,
And say,
“Oh what a poor girl!”
No one could sympathize,
For the broken vase,
For things are meant to break,
And my heart is one of those.
‘Its time you sleep.
Get some rest, my friend.’
No, don’t stop me.
Please don’t.
For this one last time,
Let me speak.
Let me tell you where I have been,
What I have gone through,
Oh let me speak.
I have had the worst days,
Of my life.
Life, oh is this life?
I used to sit on the grasses,
Look at the beautiful flowers,
Enjoy the breezes that once flew,
Follow the butterflies.
I never plucked a flower,
I never caught a butterfly,
For I loved them living,
And spreading wings,
And showering fragrances.
I knew,
I believed,
That all their beauty remained,
Until they lived.
Then why me?
Why was I followed?
And plucked?
And thrown,
And dumped?
Why me?
WHY ME?
I cry hysterically.
I sob and weep,
And shout and yell,
Until a needle is pierced,
On my arm and I,
Collapse.
Wounded.
Broken.
Like fragments,
Of a vase!
A beautiful vase,
A black vase!
A coffined vase.
.
Written by: Maria Imran *Randomly Abstract*
First published: http://www.firebirdpoetry.com/
© Copyright protected.
Left: I, Maria ‘Drawing hatred’
Right: archdaily.com
Edited: RandomlyAbstract
Silence-
is not a symbol of pride.
its not always ego.
Silence is a silent expression-
of what I want you to see.
of what I have always wished for you to find out!
Silence is the power of heart.
It holds up relations by saving them from harm.
Silence is the art of saying it all — without the need of words!
-Maria.
Randomly Abstract 