I Bleed Words Sometimes



Sometimes abandoning that which only births sorrow is the best choice to make.

Hard choice,

A wise one.


But then again,

You can’t escape sorrow,

neither love.

You can only return a smile when they wave.


My 26th Contribution to NaPoWriMo

Death & Life

What is a man

without the realization

that death lingers near?


He is the empty street.

He is that broken glass.

He is the last chance we’ll never have.


He is the living dead.


My 25th Contribution to NaPoWriMo


I forgot where the safe place is.

It was burnt and caved in by them, there is none but just open moors and taverns.

Lost homes, missing havens. How do we find them again? You reckon, we never can.

Don’t we scratch the walls and extinguish beacons.

Build walls we can barely climb. Build the impenetrable cage of memories of a different life. Lost life. Rotten beautiful life

Skinned knees, broken bottles. Oh! How we climb and slipper and wither, these thought the choke how feeble are we to dangle.

The more we sink, the more taller it gets. The more we try to forget the more we feed the growing chaos. There’s no escape.

Just somebody put us down, the clawing on the earth of fable, for a faithless climb. Broken, distraught and hollow.

Let’s fill the pit of sorrow, with tears of the past. Let’s burn our present and our future let’s swallow.

Such shame and deceit, No honour in your crimes? We weep while you bask in your rhyming lies. We reap and we reap…

And we reap some more.




~ By Varun Chakravarty & Mitchelle Rozario Jansen

My 24th contribution to NaPoWriMo

Checkout Varun’s other works on http://stateofmaroon.wordpress.com/





Will you still love me when…

Will you still love me when I’m stripped of my words?

When I have nothing to offer?

When I can’t make the ink flow?

When I’ve spilled every ounce of you from my being?

When I’ve forgotten how to bleed?

When I’m devoid of emotion?

When I’ve lost the will to live?

When I’ve lost the will to love?

When I’m bare and unashamed?

Will you?

Nobody ever does.

Convenient Love

There are no mountains being moved,
No swimming across oceans,
No bringing down the stars and moon,
No giving of life,
Nor taking any.

Just the words “I love you”
When the other wants to hear it the most.

Love, Is It Over Yet?

Is it over yet?

The ordeal of love?

Or do I need to continue smiling.

Continue defying,

The state of my heart.


Is it over yet?

The patient wait,

for nothingness,

for emptiness.

for hollowness?


Is it over yet?

Your condescending laugh,

echoing through my head,

resounding through my soul.

creeping through my body?


Is it over yet?

your pretence,

your facade,

your false promises?


I guess,

It just isn’t over, until you’re over.Image

My 18th Contribution to NaPoWriMo 2013


I let blood spill all over my white gown,

My Hands,

My Temple,

My Feet,

My Paper,

My Morsel,

My Drink,

My Soul,

My Spirit,

My Life,

My Dreams.

I let his blood spill all over me.Image

My 17th Contribution to NaPoWriMo.

Whiskey – Day 18 NaPoWriMo

Whiskey was more than a word to her,

Much more than a drink.

It was the fragrance of love that once was.

It was the scar running across her cheek,

Her Pandora’s box of memories unheard off.

For year and years she wrapped around her the shadow of hope, of lust she reeked.

It was her own little secret to keep.

How she let her tears run dry, with every sip of whiskey.

My 16th Contribution to NaPoWriMo.

The challenge was – Day 18


Doors closing in

Seasons change and rightly so, but do you watch the colors dance and sing? Do you watch how they fade and bring… New life?

How you crawl behind those showers, stars they die when you strife?

How you let yourself believe there’s no hope for hope. Or love beyond the cries of the night. So much clamor for hate!

The drums at night stifles silence so blind, it wreaks of love so dishonest and dry. Drape in hope is my shunned envelope of faith.

I take turns burning up and getting colder. Getting older. Morphing into a new being, I didn’t know lived within. Inside out.

Do you feel the walls cave in and the house burn, the dead weight shoulders propped? Lost in the ashes, thinking aloud?

And you wonder what saved you? Why was salvation granted to a wretch? May be all the glory is in endurance of love and ache.

For ache I do, head held high. The flag burns brighter and salvation left to pry. Define me in my rhythm of my own forgotten wake.

Wash me down in the waters of shame.

I burn in boats of blames and games.

~ By Varun Chakravarty & Mitchelle Rozario Jansen

Author’s note:

With my co-authors permission I’m adding this poem to as my 15th Contribution to NaPoWriMo even though this is yet another amalgamation of a random conversation we both had. Hope you guys like this effort. Cheers!

Checkout Varun’s other works on http://stateofmaroon.wordpress.com/


Sometimes you look at the person and your heart skips a beat.

Sometimes you look at the person and your smile doesn’t cease.

Sometimes you speak to that person and time is a vacant entity.

Sometimes you look into that person’s eyes and all you want to do is kiss them tender and sweet,


So you just look away instead.



Picture Courtesy: Israel based photographer, Yell Saccani’s uses movement to create disturbing imagery. Combing both traditional and digital methods of photography many of Saccani’s subjects appear deranged or enraged, they are, as Saccani says,  ’a recording of feelings, not easily deciphered, not meant to be understood but meant to be felt.’

This is my 14th contribution to NaPoWriMo. 🙂

This journey is more than just writing something for the heck of it. It is a process for me. A way in which I know my life is turning around. For the better.


The inexplicable.

Beyond rhyme or reason.

Beyond wrong or right.

Just the insane birthed out of irrational want.

Just one tied to another with strings of love and hate.




My 13th Contribution to NaPoWriMo.

The haunted soul

My own character was the thorn in my side.

I felt the ache and didn’t shy away or try to hide.

I let it show, the anger within,

For the agonizing love I let out a scream.

Catherine Earnshaw the damsel I so loved,

But for her to understand, it would take more than courage and words.


You teach me now how cruel you’ve been — cruel and false!

Why did you despise me? Why did you betray your own heart, Cathy?

Why couldn’t you give me your love?

It’s only that much more insufferable,

Because I am strong.

Without you Cathy, my love is trapped in the grave beyond.


With these words,

I tried to make her mine.

She was after all Heathcliff’s prized possession.

Alas, I could only be laid in her tomb, my love being buried with me.

Had I lived to see this day, this would have been my confession.


PS 12th Contribution to NaPoWriMo. This is in line with the theme for today which is about writing a persona poem. I chose my favourite character from my most favourite book Wuthering Heights.



We make mistakes.

We falter.

We live on the edge.

We’re impulsive.

We take the plunge.

We risk our sanity.

We regret.

And then… we move on.

You know how that is?

Yeah, me neither.


PS: 11th  contribution to NaPoWriMo.


She let him run his fingers through her hair.

Sometimes she let him tear them from their roots.

She’d let him sing poems of care,

Sometimes let him spill venom and be rude.

She was his slave.

Sometimes his muse.


To her, he will always be, just another man.

Poet and his muse

PS: My tenth contribution to NaPoWriMo.

Picture courtesy:

Ayan Ghoshal You can buy his paintings here: http://tinyurl.com/bp8tque

Lover Friend

Temptation to me you are,

I crave for your love.


But sweet poison you are,

I sink as you get me drunk


Because you see, old friend.

Not all lovers can be saviours.

Not all lovers can make you feel loved.


— 9th Contribution to NaPoWriMo.

Perfect retreat


It has the power to heal.

It is your saving grace.

It is your escape.


When the world is closing in on you.

It will show you the horizon.

Open a new avenue.

It smells sweet.

The beautiful scent of knowledge and power.

It’s your healer.

It’s your friend.

It’s your solace.

It’s your refuge.


Your perfect hiding place.


You’ll lose them all,

And then you’ll lose sleep over what’s lost.

You’ll lose your life,

You’ll lose your happiness,

You’ll lose everything you’ve lived for.

And then one day,

You’ll see how futile it was.

How utterly ignorant you were,

How ungrateful you turned.

And you’ll be ashamed

You let hurt, burn your life, taint your soul

Rotten your mind, disfigure you beyond recognition.

When all you had to do was look away.

Walk away.

In to the love that was standing at the door.

Imploring you to embrace it.

But you were naive. Stupid.

Not anymore.

That counts for more.

To mourn or smile?

You stomp out, whimper and cry, you bleed, bleed again,

You incite the venom, the poison, your soul so despises.

You sing so sweet, so melodious, of heartache and pain,

Yet hate you welcome, your brothers come home after ages?

You seek the new, the old you discard and slain,

It’s easy a bargain to make, to burn the ashes

Of our past glories to relive the agony and smile,

To hurt and curse, yet experience little happiness for awhile.


This is my sixth contribution towards the NaPoWriMo project. My humble attempt at creating something on the lines of Ottava Rima an Italian form of poetry.


Hold me in your…

Hold me in your arms.
Rock me from side to side.
Lift my spirit up,
before I crumble and die.
Because, Darling, it’s time I heal.

~ Mitchelle Rozario Jansen

A man’s hand

A dear friend of mine said once, “You’ve got a man’s hand” At first I took offence, but then there was some truth in what he said. Here’s my thought out response to him.

Even as a child, when others played with dolls, she let her palms run through the mud.

When she grew a little older, she had the confectioner’s hands. The bakers palm, all sweaty, black, full of dirt.

They were the same hands that picked bags, Bags twice the weight of herself. She had a boy’s hand, all rough.

But these aren’t really the reason behind her coarse palms.

These are insignificant. Negligible moments told.

She had a man’s hand, because too fast she had to grow.

Because only a man’s hand, could stop the blow.

What makes a coward?

Hate easily befits the void created by love. Easily. Like it was one and the same being.

She smiled the same infectious smile. While her heart was tattered into pieces. She smiled and it hurt just the same, like when she cried at night.


Life. Irony. Sadist.

Laugh at her timidity.

Laugh at her brave facade.

Because you see her soul through her eyes.

You watch with lecherous laughter at the storm they reflect.

But it’s not you she’s afraid off.


She’s frightened of her own masochism.

Her own strength makes her weak.


Dark are our ways. The moon in our hearts. We pull the tides of hate. We let it tear us apart.

We steal a sinful glance, we glutton for that love. We hold the sands of time, in the bosom of our hearts.

We cross the rivers wild, we call forth its fury. We let it drown us deep, the treasure of misery.

We are stingy and we fight, we hold on tight. We punish ourselves so, every day more so at night.

We live by faith. We die by love. We grew up to believe time health. But it also stealth all.


So why wait to end it all? Why not start now? To oneself stay true?

There’s no hope for the dead.

I’m the dark shade of blue. I’m the dark shade of blue.

Pen her story

She was accustomed to the routine. Meet. Muse. Misery. It was as though the story was written once. Relived a thousand times over.

She was prepared for the fateful day. She was armed with tears and a brave heart. She would use it when her knees felt weak. She would use it when the shadows of her soul were dark and cloudy. She would use them against her own will. She would use them to thrive. She would use them to smile. She would use them to create a cocoon. She would use them to create a fortress. She would use them to hurt, herself and others. She would use it when history repeated itself. Yet again.

Burnt ashes in the tray. Crumpled papers thrown in the air. Warmth on her cheeks. It took courage and a lot of Bourbon that night. For her to gather up all the strength her weak heart could shelter. She knew it had to be done. Because something’s just must. A necessity. Like breath for life.

She penned her story that midnight hour. It was called ‘Goodbye’.

She was accustomed to reliving the story over and over again. She looked forward to the routine.

Meet. Muse. Misery.

It was as though the story was written once.

Relived a thousand times over.