I Bleed Words Sometimes

Posts tagged “Story

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/


Perfect retreat

 

It has the power to heal.

It is your saving grace.

It is your escape.

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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.

Books.

Your perfect hiding place.


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.