I Bleed Words Sometimes

Posts tagged “Hurt

Morning

Credit: Eva Rubinstein

I thought of those who had died in their sleep

Such a beautiful way to go

You rest, you dream, you leave this earthly shell behind…

I wondered how peaceful it would be

How there would be no suffering; at least in death

A thought crossed my mind. But I didn’t say it out loud.

Wishes are made with closed eyes and secretly in the heart.

I closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep

6.30 am. Birds began to chirp. Sunlight beamed through the cracks in the curtain.

And I was awake.

Never have I felt so alone, so dejected, so sad.


Too much

1625467_942696235761024_3658108102813100371_nPC – Anastasia Smurova.

 

Sometimes we love people too much,

Love is responsibility.

Love is ache waiting to be felt.

Love is a tragedy in the making.

Love is beautiful.

Love makes you do all the things you yourself wouldn’t approve of.

Love pushes you to the point that you do not recognize yourself.

And if that love is poison to someone.

It’s best to let it go.

Sometimes we love people too much to keep them in our lives.


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.


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/


Evanesce

Thorsten Schnorrbusch

Slowly fading, like the setting sun.
Do you belong to some,
Or to none?

Music drifts further away,
It’s the way of this world.
Never to stay,

Are you watching me smile,
insincere though,
turn away, let me cry a while.

Hold me in your arms,
Then disappear
When I’m calm.

I won’t cry, I promise you,
Please let me be
The one you go to

I’ll listen as you speak,
Will forever
your secrets keep

Just one small promise I seek
You’ll say goodbye
Every time you leave.


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?


You’re beautiful

"Dialog"  Rudolf Bonvie. 1977.

You’re so beautiful.
And you deserve so much better.
And even though I miss you,
I’m happy for you and this new life you’ve chosen.

But I’m selfish and sad.
And you being beautiful just makes it all the more insufferable.

Why do you have to be so beautiful?

Heiner Luepke.

 


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:

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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.


The Stage Is Set

Luminous Lu

She staggered through the desert, not stopping for breath, or water.

She recognized that the only way to conquer fear is to saunter on.

And so she did.

 

She held her anguish close to her bosom

A mother looking over her nursling

Glancing at it through the fissure

She wanted to ascertain her own desolation

It gave her courage.

You see, that’s how she was reminded of her mission, her machination, her need and her want.

 

Having walked on for miles, she lost all strength.

But she reminded herself, time and again, to not lose her will.

There’s some formidable power in misery that makes us do crazy things,

And do them well!

 

Hope began to lose its grip.

Because there was nothing but the vast desert, the sand, as far as the eye could see.

She began to cry until her tears ran dry and the sky put on its dark cloak.

 

It was only by the end of her journey that she began to run.

She could finally see the gallows.

Surrounded by voices from her past

Regret, shame, guilt, selfishness, greed, intemperance, love, care, tenderness were bawling their displeasure in the open.

 

Melancholy laments

Despondent her

She ran to her fate

Embraced it like it was her lover

Kissing it with a fierce passion

It was her time to bid adieu

And she did

With a beauteous smile

 

Now that’s a goodbye!


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?


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


Seasons

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/


Companion

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

Quote

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.