It is okay.

It is okay.

You can call this part two of Travel Bird if you want to. In both, we’ve only discussed how you should live. In this particular post, I wanted to talk about so many things we stop ourselves from doing for the weirdest reasons. Don’t stop yourself. Enjoy! And comment, a lot.


Go ahead.
Stand taller than everyone else,
Fall apart.
Feel afraid, or
Alone
Among smiles of
Chapped lips
And wrinkled eyes.
Speak out
Tell us what’s right,
Share your dreams
Nightmares, or
stories of your petty fights.
Praise every other heart that still beats,
And love the music
Pumping through your veins,
Just like it is,
Through every one else’s.
Let your hands fumble on the knob,
And your heart break.
Feel dead,
And then come back to life.
Smile,
Frown.
Be happy at times.
And at times don’t be afraid
to drown.
Do it all, love.
It is okay.


Previous post: Something about Naomi
Instagram: @myspirals

Give me prompts in the comment section. Also, tell me if you like the huge capital first letter.

With my skin burned away, I’m still human.

With my skin burned away, I’m still human.

I cannot begin to imagine,
fathom,
what it feels like to face a change due to a disaster.
Be it burned or harassed or impaired,
anything.
I believe there are two important sides
to this ‘change’.

One, the before.
When I was ten and I lied for the very first time,
my father took five of my favorite books
and asked me to tear them to pieces.
I know I didn’t want to do it,
I didn’t want this to happen,
I wasn’t okay with it.
This
is just a mini-metaphor for the pain
that the warriors must’ve felt.
Their pain must be
a million times this?
Two, the after.
My brother was nineteen when he had a kid
and his girlfriend left him.
He decided to make the child happy
all alone.
He wasn’t ready
but he was ready to learn how to be.
Again, a micro-metaphor
for the lessons warriors have to learn.

I cannot begin to imagine,
fathom,
what it feels like to face a change due to a disaster.

I don’t want to
But I have to
Because every time I hear someone making fun
Of the man with burnt arms
I can feel my own skin peeling away
with sadness and anger
My flesh burning
Scars appearing in the same pattern
Inch by inch
Burned stories etching themselves onto my skin
Personal ones charring away
I become more him than myself
and I use that to make things right.

I cannot begin to imagine,
fathom,
what it feels like to face a change due to a disaster.
But I want you to be able
to imagine what human feels like
by showing you a mirror
when you need me to.


Previous posts: Not all dates are the same.
Instagram: @myspirals

Give me prompts in the comment section. Oh, and share this a lot, please?

Inside my head.

What do I think about? Is it love or my family?
Or is it a wonder trip and all-nighters?

I think of rainbow unicorns,
with soft wavy hair like my mother used to have,
and a horn that sharpens as a spiral,
much like my thoughts.
It has eyes like me father’s,
and crooked teeth that remind me,
of my sister.
It’s my family unicorn and it gallops in the sky.
I love them.
It’s not perfect, but it’s beautiful.
Also ironically, real.

I think of Christmas trees,
with a line of golden bells and colorful things
that hold within them,
stories of smiles and tears.
It is green and smells like a new day,
and looks exactly like what I drew it to be,
back in second grade.
I am a pirate and it’s my treasure box.
I love my memories.
It’s not perfect, but it has a star.
Also ironically, the star is from the sky.

I think of hearts on the corner of folded pages,
with red sketched inside of it,
a red that reminds me of my girlfriends stubbornness,
and how she blushes.
The paper is creased but the heart is still complete,
and it reminds me of a very old,
romanticized war.
It is my life’s ‘profile picture’ and I’ve liked it myself.
I love sketching.
It’s not artistic, but it is elegant.
Also ironically, three dimensional and inside my body.


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Instagram handle: @myspirals

Previous post : The war has ended.
Related post : Palettes of life.

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A list of things about her.

This is probably the shortest poem I’ve written so far, but I really liked the concept and wanted to do it. I hope you enjoy this and share it!


Here is a list of things she smelled of:

Sunlight.
Beginnings.
Expensive perfume.
Hot chocolate.
Feelings.

and a list of things she looked like:

A crisp white shirt.
Sushi.
Sunset.
Christmas lights.
Love.

A list of things she reminded me of:

Empty vodka bottles.
Terraces and stars.
Neck kisses.
Smeared mascara.
The color of sunlight after it hits a bottle of whiskey.
Life.

A list of things she was:

A dragon-slayer.
A smile despite a tiring day.
A favorite song on repeat.
My auto-correct.
Human and alive.
Home..
Mine.


If you want to connect with me on Facebook, click here.
Instagram handle: @myspirals

Previous post: How to: Be poetry.
Related post: Damn, your eyes.

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Languages, medicines and magicians.

What has music been for you? Let me know in the comment section below! Enjoy reading. Instagram handle: @myspirals


“Music is a safe kind of high.” – Jimi Hendrix

Music is a language, a medicine and a magic trick. Dance to it.

  • Music was his mother-tongue. His tongue fumbled when he spoke English as if it were a foreign language that he hadn’t heard all his life, but when he was alone, he hummed a tune and did not miss a single note. He stuttered and shied away from conversations with strangers, but sang songs with a broad grin around camp fires. When he wasn’t feeling alright, he would shut out completely and listen to music as he thought and thought about what had gone wrong, but you could find small clues hidden in his playlist to make him feel alright.
  • Her soul had been crushed into absolute pieces and her heart had cuts all over. There was a constant ache, that seemed to run like blood in her veins and pillows couldn’t drown it out. But earplugs seemed to drive the pain away completely, or at least numb it. As the lyrics stopped her mind from wandering about, and the music brought her a much-needed gift, she could smile without wanting to scream. Music was her band-aid and no one could rip it off her scars. For her, music was like a steady dose of pain-killers and peace. Music was the only pillow that could drown out the screams, and it was the only shoulder she could cry on.
  • He was broke and broken, but managed to get into the bar right across the street. He needed to feel lost and alive, and so he stepped onto the dance-floor swarmed with broken hearts and night-outs. The music was loud enough to make him disappear as his feet moved about in an unsteady pace. The broken pieces of his heart rattled against each other, but no one could hear it. The pieces slammed against each other and broke into smaller pieces until all that was left was dust. He smiled as he took the dust and blew on it, as if it were fairy-dust and his wishes were going to come true.

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Previous post: Travel bird.
Related post: Mirages and ink bottles.

Friends, if you like reading my work, do share it with your friends (on whatever social media you deem appropriate). It would be amazing to have more people reading my compositions. Please help my infinity grow bigger ∞