I Bleed Words Sometimes

Posts tagged “hate

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.