I Bleed Words Sometimes

Posts tagged “hate

Foolish

20140429-223618.jpg

You think I’m foolish,
I do not comprehend…
The things that transpire behind my back.

Let me tell you this,
I know,
I understand.
But it’s good to be foolish,
Than to be wise.
For this world sees not with kindness
On those who fight,

Sadistic ways.
Test of our patience.

Let me be stupid,
Alone.
And away from all the games you play.
You, who claim to be mine.

I seek not your approval.
I seek not your love.
I seek the stupidity of an infamous fool.


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?


I Miss You

Sometimes I miss you

But I guess I shouldn’t

 

I’ve only to close my eyes and I’ll feel your embrace

I’ve only to hum our song and I’ll hear your sweet voice

I’ve only to remember and I’d find your lips meeting mine

I’ve only to lose myself and my soul shall drift to you

 

I guess I don’t need to miss you

Because…

It is you in I and I in you

Forever

Or is it?


Living Or Dying

Lucy Reynolds.

 

 

Every moment counts,

Every word,

Every touch,

Every promise,

Every breath counts.

 

Enjoy it while it lasts.

 

Life and its uncertainties…

You can never tell

This mystery is some vulgar, beautiful, wretchedness,

We have got to endure.

 

Loving empties us within.

 

We forget that we’re losing strength

We forget that it’s robbing us of our sanity

But we give in any way,

Just for those few stolen moments of bliss.

 

Temptation. Yes, we’re tempted to enjoy the temporary glory.

 

Forgetting the eternal damnation we are calling upon ourselves.

 

Life. Love. Misery.

 

I know not of any other way of living,

Or dying.


A Love Story

What’s lost?
She didn’t mourn during the last rites. Numb with bereavement, she stood motionless.
They lowered his body into the earth and therewith buried her spirit.
She had not wept at all in days. They shook her, wailed, brought forth memories of him, but to no avail.
She had lost the will to feel…

Read and please vote for the full piece here:

http://bit.ly/16Cm8Sj

Appreciate it!

Pina Bausch.

 

 


The Crowd

And when I let it in, it crushed every ounce of me within seconds.

I was a goner the minute I let my guard down.

 

It was as if the consequence I so feared were unraveling in front me at the speed of light.

And the blow… Oh, it was just too fatal.

 

I took a deep breath, again, in search for some solace. Ha, all in vain.

 

Standing there, in the middle of the square, no one could tell the tornado inside.

People indulged in the hustle and bustle of their own lives.

 

Babies crying.

Old couples holding hands walking in the silence of their love.

Young couples fighting over a trivial deal.

Children rushing to school.

Mothers scolding kids.

Father rushing to earn the bread and butter…

 

Standing there in the middle of the square, no one, absolutely no one, could tell there was a tornado whirling within.

The calm facade camouflaging the crumbling structure.

 

So beautiful.
So lovely.
So picturesque.

 

Yes, life is poetry.

 

And I just hugged the soil beneath my feet.


Divine Ipseity

Lydia Roberts.

We’re afraid to face ourselves.

We’re afraid of what it might do to us,

Even worse, what we might never be able to do, ever again.

Once the truth is spilled from our lips,

Ones ugliness is made known.

 

We feed ourselves with pride and then with guilt.

We revolt harmony,

We treat it like we would an enemy.

But why should it matter?

We do what we think we should.

We do what we must.

And in doing so there should be no remorse,

Only contentment, that we did what we truly wanted.

 

There’s great joy in being who you truly are.

No matter how crude, lonely, gruesome, painful it gets.

 

It’s a beautiful melody when we reveal the true ugliness of our soul.

It brings a very evident change in us, celebrates our liberty and all that we are, is made known to all and sundry.

Grace After The Beauty Is Gone.

Grace After The Beauty Is Gone.


A Little Dream

Vincent Bourilhon.

I wish so much for you to go, and grow and be.

I wish so much for you to leave.

But somehow, somewhere it’s difficult to say.

It has been difficult to feel.

 

The possibility of a together tomorrow is tempting.

It’s tempting because somehow I know It’s unattainable.

And I’m OK with it being so.

And yet, it’s difficult to see it happen.

 

I’ve wished too much lately,

But here are a few more,

You see it doesn’t hurt to dream.

 

So I wish,

I wish, that when the rain pours down on your face, you miss me,

When the same sun shines upon your frame, you miss me,

When the same moon kisses you under the night sky, you miss me,

When morning comes, you smile, knowing I miss you.

When the night puts on its armor you let down your guard and you miss me.

 

Is that too much to ask?

I think it is.

You see, no one said love would be easy.


Admission Of Guilt

Joe Webb.

I have wronged you,

And there’s nothing I can say to soothe the blister,

Nor anything I can do to take it all away.

I have wronged you and an apology is futile.

 

I replay in my mind over and over,

The venom I spat,

The curses I yelled,

And couldn’t understand why?

 

And that moment it felt right.

 

But does that make it so?

NO!

I was wrong then and I’m mistaken now,

In thinking you’ll relent and let it all slip away.

Let it all go.

Like nothing ever happened.

Like it was all a bad dream.

And we’ll be us again.

Can’t we be us again?

Please.


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?


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


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


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.

Image

— 9th Contribution to NaPoWriMo.


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.


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.


Infidelity

What’s possession?

What’s faithfulness?

What’s loyalty?

How do I own another when I barely own myself?

I can love.

But how do I coax another, arm twist him into sweet surrender.

I can’t.

I won’t.

So l let him go. Like the river making it’s unending journey.

I don’t glance over once.

If I try to stop, it’s all in vain.

The stream stops for no one.

Not even love.

Not even loyalty.

Not even faithfulness.

Not even fidelity.

It’s not a trade we can chose.

Love is a gamble we lose.


Leave me be

It’s inexplicable.

No words ever written can do it justice.

No poem can make it rhyme.

The coarse journey.

The blatant trial.

Nothing a metaphor worth a dime.

Agony lived.

Sour felt.

Warmth endured.

Silence dwelt.

All in the name of the hate after love.

Go ahead pen your story. Tear it up. Write it again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. Until the past pours out from your very being.