I Bleed Words Sometimes

Posts tagged “Blood

Come, Ruin Me

My Nemesis,

In how many ways can you break my heart?

You surely know more than one.

And how many times can you stomp it sore?

You surely can do more.

How many times can you beat it blue?

Till my heart bleeds dry,

Until I forget you?

Herbert List

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Sorrow In A Cave

Nan Goldin.

The rebellion of the sorrow in a cave, temptress on walls and a blade to succumb too.

Let’s drill deep, further seep, into the shell. So safe so dark so at home why won’t the edges blur? Why won’t the world melt?

Scratches along the walls, the wolf behind this cage. How shallow seems the sand and how horridly the edges peel away.

You can’t hear him howling, nor can you feel his pain. You can only stare at the ferocious creature. So tamed by his own rage.

Writhing in my own monstrosity, I envelope in the arms of heartache, Fuming I curl helpless, bleeding on my own page.

The wolf peering at me through the mirror. Is it me I should be afraid of? Or is it the human face that hides the monster?

Stalk slow, Die slow. A tyrant stirs, Resilient every feeling so crippled. It’s my wake, your memory and the their ripples. . .

So engulfed in your wrath that you spill from your bones. Blood to dry your tears. Hope to slaughter love. Laugh you sinner.

Jeer while you can, the tides may turn and the caves may light up. Hope lies in shadows of fears, dare to love and fear to breathe

Blithering wind. Scorching warmth. Are you not frightened of the agonizing, terrorizing nothingness? Your soul withers.

My soul withers where wombs lay bare, as pure as sin and half as fair. Stones unturned and sorrow I’ve had my share.

Yet I smile with my life laid bare. At your feet. Where you kick and curse. Sweet.

I scream everything down, the caves painted grey and love burnt for warmth. Hide…hide…hide.

Reality Eve Arnold.

~ By Varun Chakravarty & Mitchelle Rozario Jansen

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


Now what?

Tim Walker

 

Now what?

Should I just let the door CLOSE, and shut out the voices?

Or should I fight, knowing it’s a lost battle?

 

Now what?

Should I pick up the pieces?

Or should I DANCE on them and watch the colours unfurl!

 

Now what?

Are you going to just WATCH as I bare myself, moment by moment, piece by piece, one by one, to one and all?

Aren’t you going to stop me? Slap me? Shake me from my trance?

Do you delight in my reverie?

 

Now what, sweetheart?

Now what?

Is there no beginning after this end?

There should be, the stories say so,

Legend says so

History isn’t going to REPEAT itself?

 

But mama made me believe…

And I believed. Sadly, I still do.

This is going to CHANGE, right darling?

You’ll wake up any moment now,

Abandon your grave and hug me tight?

 

I can’t hear you.

You’re scaring me!

Don’t joke with me anymore!

Just SPEAK to me once baby,

Tell me love…

Now What?


That Still Night

Denis Roche.

It was the first time she felt the fearsome marvel of a man’s body. She asked him about his deepest darkest terror. His eyes glistened at the very thought of that day. After what seemed like an eternity, he answered her, with every detail and vehemence as though he was reliving that very moment again, once again. They sat there in the haunting silence of their hearts and souls. She had learnt of the most ghastly experience of his life and she could not unlearn it. She did not wish to. She did not need to.

She leaned forward and touched his temple with her quivering lips. And moving slowly like the orange basked sky disappearing into the purple haze of the misty cloud, she kissed his high cheeks, his sharp nose and whispered gently to his lips. And without contemplation, without any resolve or question he responded to her every silent command. She did not wish for him to lead, today was her day to give. For the first time in her life she was sure of what she wanted. She wanted to touch him, caress him and kiss him right in that dark, fearful part of his soul that had been so meticulously concealed, never to be revealed to any being, breathing or deceased.
His pain and terror wasn’t hers to take away. It wasn’t her intention to make it go away because she knew, more than anything, that she could never erase that grisly memory which was a part of him. A part that had been carved and embedded into the bottomless abyss of his very being. Memories can never be replaced, she could not replace his with hers either. All she could do with every sway was attach this memory to the unpleasant one he already owns. And maybe, just maybe when he remembers the original gruesome memory, he will remember this; he will remember her and remember the poetry they created together-alone that still night. It was the first time she felt the fearsome marvel of a man’s body. It was just like she always dreamed of it to be.
~ by Madonna Rozario Jansen

I, Me & Myself

Ankahee:

Patte jo shaakhon se toote
Bewajah toh nahin roothe, hain sabhi..

Image

The solitary being doesn’t need anybody.

It loves company,

Revels in laughter and belongingness,

But does it need them?

 

It was forced to thrive in ruins and it did. Alone.

 

The self’s conversation with loneliness

Is one of great wisdom,

The colloquy of that which doesn’t exist,

That which could be,

And that which can never come to be

 

It leaves the heart brooding over meaningless incidents,

Scarring even the beauty that once was

And you watch

And you yell

And you spit venom

Because that’s all you’ve known to do well

 

Me, Me, Me.

I, I, I.

And that’s all that matters.

Right?


Sanctuary

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.

 

refuge

 

~ By Varun Chakravarty & Mitchelle Rozario Jansen

My 24th contribution to NaPoWriMo

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

 

 

 

 


Blood

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.