Not all dates are the same.

Not all dates are the same.

Before you start reading, two translations you might need – ‘baba’ means father and ‘ammi’ means mother. I hope you like this


It’s very tough to remember how a conversation played out when it has been a few years and you’ve not even thought about it once. Luckily for me, I had a map that helped me remember every important detail. This map was made out of lyrics and tunes that we sang together. The first song was an instrumental that went on for about six minutes. We spent those minutes just looking and trying to draw mental sketches of each other Continue reading Not all dates are the same.

Tsunami

Tsunami

I’m as messed up as this poem. This just might not make sense.

Home.
It’s a strange place
You never know where you’ll feel it.
Two arms and music inside a chest
Or four walls and family dinners,
spin the bottle and hopeless friends,
Or maybe just a city.
My mind is a crazy mess
My heart does not rhyme anymore
Everyone has a story
I’m living a story that
I just can’t put into words.
Nostalgia is a dirty liar.
But it’s my happy place.
You see,
When I write about love,
Words flow nonstop.
When I write about pain,
I don’t try to rhyme, it just fucking happens.

But when I write about home,
My poetry is a lost cause.
There’s a tsunami in my head.
A tsunami of words that don’t match,
And there’s no way to put them together.
I’ve been trying and trying to write
About home
About my time there
My time here
About what I’ve felt in between
But words of no purpose pop into my head
And although they can be made
Into something beautiful
Like everything can
I’m just not the one to do it.
But I so badly want to.
I want to frame sentences,
And beautiful verses,
Phrases that make sense,
Something.
But here I am,
Going on and on
Not having a clue about what I’m writing.
I’m so sorry.
I just miss home.


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Crayon hospitals.

Crayon hospitals.

Hospitals freak a lot of people out. Share your hospital story in the comment section below!


I sat by her bedside,
Held her paper pale hands,
And stared blankly at everything,
That today had become.
The hospital walls crayon pink and blue,
The tables a stable horse.
A vase that remind me of our fourth anniversary,
And a picture frame that was empty.
The air depressed and anxious,
and my eyeballs frantic.
Her paper pale hands,
And Christmas shirt,
And no obvious signs that she was hurt.
No smile, frown, pain or love,
The truth pretending to be a lie.

I blabbered on and on,
About what my day was like,
Even though she probably knew,
All day I was by her side.
I told her about the birds and cars,
And how I secretly had had vodka,
About her dads crooked smile,
But not about his ruby nose,
And his wet face.
I told her I loved her.

As the doctor told me something,
I wrote down a list of the fastest things in the world:
My heartbeat
Light
Sound.

“She has cancer,
I’m so sorry.”


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How often do you think about me?

How often do you think about me?

When someone touches your hair,
Laughs at your jokes,
Hurts you,
Or just watches you giggle endlessly,
Do you wish that it was me?
When someone pushes you away
To pull you closer,
Looks in your eyes
And smiles with curled lips
And crinkled eyes,
Do you wish that it was me?

When someone gives you roses,
Chocolates,
Or adventure and Love,
When someone wraps his arm
around your shoulders,
Do you wish it was my heartbeat,
My arms and my warm grip,
Do you wish that it was me?

When someone holds your hands,
Rubs your palms,
Kisses the back of your hand,
Holds it forever,
Do you wish it was the folds of my fingers,
And hope in my eyes?
Do you wish it was me?

Do you think about me as often
As blades think of cutting,
And the band-aid of healing?

Do you, as often
As the sun of burning,
And the water of drowning?

Do you think about me as often
As the clock of ticking away,
And the days of making us wait?

Do you think about me as often
As I think of you,
Or not at all?


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A pack of color pencils.

A pack of color pencils.

“Humans are fragile creatures made up of broken hearts and broken promises.” – Unknown

The water at the end of the desert. That is what a promise is made of. It’s not real.

  1. Young Rue thought that Santa would send a present this year too. She had been a good girl. She had been nice to every one, and had done all her work. Every year she waited for a box wrapped in red paper with a small paper that read “As promised.” She had a deal with Santa. She had promised to be a good girl, and in return he had promised to bring her some of her favorite chocolates and new toys. She ran out of her room as soon as she woke up, but found no presents. Had she not been a good girl, or was Santa biased against orphans?
  2. Rue learned about how words could be carved into promises as she grew older. But she believed in people anyway. She smiled when he promised to be there for her every time she shattered into pieces. She knew he would. But when everything around her crumbled, her life was a mess like the mascara flowing down her cheek, and she was drowning log in the high tide, he vanished like the sun on a winter day. Another empty promise, another broken heart, another normal day.
And then,
  1. With time, her words lost their meaning. She stopped believing. She also forgot to keep her promises., and handed out assurances and promises like a pack of color pencils that would make your life colorful. But only while it lasted. And then she failed to do what she said, show what she meant, and be what she wanted. The colors ran out, and the pack was empty. A hole in her heart was yearning for someone to remind her what promises really are. Yearning for someone to make her believe.
  2. On a summer morning, she found the person looking at her through a dirty mirror. Brown eyes and dark hair with a new pack of color pencils in her hand.

Empty promises will break you, but you’ll always have at least one person who can love you. Be your own pack of color pencils. Look for the sword.

“She wasn’t waiting for a knight. She was waiting for a sword.” – Atticus


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