Something I can touch.

Something I can touch.

Assume all TRIGGER WARNINGs. I’ve been trying to write about such issues more often and I hope I do them justice. (secret: you might enjoy the poem more if you google the meaning of some of the names) Let me know if you liked it in the comments.

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When my father told me we were the gold pots
at the end of the rainbow,
I was only ten.
He loved rainbows.
Every year on his birthday,
our house would become a castle made of
blue, yellow, and red
and my sister and I would draw him a red carpet
made out of every color in the 62 rupees color pencil pack.
It would start at the door and only last four steps
but it made abba smile the widest every year.

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A storyteller’s guide.

A storyteller’s guide.

Hey! I honestly don’t know if it’s a guide from a storyteller to us normal people about life or it’s a guide to storytellers, so I decided to let it be both (Like Theon was both a Stark and a Greyjoy – Game of Thrones reference). I hope you like it! Do tell me if you do. The comments section is all yours. Show some love?

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Hidden in the blankets of old streets in Paris was a blue house. A story-teller lived in this house that smelled of the ocean. His name was Zale.

Zale’s house was filled with objects that he’d collected over time that represented different story-telling principles. A black toy gun from when he was eight was framed in a glass box to remind him of Chekhov’s Gun concept. His (now dead) bird’s cage hung from the fan in his living room but its tiny gate was open to suggest artistic license. A ball-pen placed on his first ever tablet to characterize Juxtapose.

The last sunset.

The last sunset.

The world wrapped their 9-5
in a fancy gift wrap of “I’m too tired”
as the sun slowly started falling
for someone who didn’t love him back.
Why should he be any different than us?
As the sunset,
everything turned black

Wars and families.

War is so much more than just history. Let’s just hope we never write such a history again.

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The sun was right above his head, and behind him, the field was a rainbow of small flowers. The boy’s forehead was sweaty and his heart was running a lost marathon. Anticipation and reflexes were his only hope, but throughout the nineteen years that he had lived, he had learned that they were not the best kind of hope. His seniors always told people that training and reality had a very significant difference, and as he hid behind trees and under bushes, he could tell what the difference was. His enemies were no longer wooden targets or friendly faces. They were strangers, and as real as he was.

Bruce had joined the army when he was seventeen because his country was in the middle of a war and he knew they needed every soldier they could get. 1942 was a lethal year, and that is when he had turned nineteen. After severe and quick training, he was being sent to a battlefield right in the middle of his training program because they didn’t have time. Soldiers were falling in huge numbers every day and the World War didn’t differentiate between soldiers, and citizens. One of the many reasons he had joined the army was because he wanted to be one of the reasons why his mother and little sister woke up every morning. He wanted to protect them.

Even now as he headed towards his possible victory or death, he could see a smile on his sister’s face and hope in his mother’s eyes. And then like a curse and a nightmare, he imagined them being tortured and a sharp sting sliced his spine and brought his focus back to the field. His weapons were clashing against a thirty year old man who was fighting for his family, just like Bruce was. Amidst a war for the country and the millions of people living in it, families had become weapons of mass destruction. The only reason he could land his shots in the center of the man’s forehead was because he had a family to get back to. He kept that in mind as he shot bullets and hid behind anything that could give him a temporary shield.

After what seemed like an infinity, but was just an hour, a bullet went right into his heart and he couldn’t even scream. The war continues around his as he lay on the ground. He tried to think about his family or remember their faces, but he could not. Why was it so tough when he needed it the most? This wasn’t the only question he didn’t get an answer to, as he passed away.

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Instagram handle: @myspirals
Previous post : Existential crisis
Related post : The war has ended.

Give me prompts in the comment section below and share if you liked this!

Kisses.

Kisses.

Comment down below the story of your most cherished kiss, or your first kiss.

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I’ve kissed you a thousand times,
Each time a little differently.
The first time,
I pinned you against a wall,
and looked into your whiskey eyes,
on your sunset lipstick,
and on your flushed cheekbones.
I kissed you with passion.
I’ve always wanted to die,
And you tasted like poison.

The tenth time,
You had sand in your hair,
and attraction in your eyes.
Vodka lingered on your lips,
And every story inside of me
That needed some courage,
Tasted you near the blueberry waves.

The sixtieth time,
We were naked on a red bed-sheet,
No eyes prying to find the secrets of my hollow heart,
or of the stories hidden behind your mountain chest.
I kissed you,
Your chest pressed against mine,
My hands on your inner thigh,
And you tasted like water,
My goddamn necessity.

The last time I kissed you,
You were crying and shivering,
I was stunned to silence,
As if a bullet had gone right through our hearts.
The kiss tasted a little salty,
and it tasted like the last fucking time,
I kissed you.

Infatuation,
Attraction,
Lust,
Love.
I have kissed you a thousand times,
And each time a little differently.

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Instagram: myspirals
Previous post : Damn, your eyes.
Related post : Kisses and cravings.

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