Hope – My Spirals

Blind hearts.

The blind man
Across the street
Sees more
Than the men around him
Who won’t lend him a hand.
He feels objects
With his fingers,
His ears,
And his anticipation;
And wonders more often
About how beautiful
This life is.
He knows no difference
Between red and blue
And yet tells his daughter
That she looks beautiful
In that black dress of hers.
He thanks you
For every little thing
Because he knows
Gratitude
More than you do.
He doubts himself
More times than not;
But he knows how to
Trust his gut.
He is blind,
And he is across the street.
A street you’d only cross,
If you were blind too.

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How to: Be happy

What makes you happy? Let me know in the comments section below. Enjoy!

Come out of the metaphorical closet, that you thought kept you safe.
Wear your favorite hat and pull it off with a grin.
Lay on cold grass in the park and listen to the rustling leaves tell you stories of love and the wind whispering poems of broken twigs.
Binge-watch a tv series or cartoon. (FRIENDS, preferably.)
Talk to a stranger every once in a while and listen to their answer when you ask “What is your happiest memory?”
Wrap that cozy blanket, that reminds you of your loved one, tightly around you, and dream about sunshine and hope.
Believe in sunshine and hope.
Every now and then, when you walk on the street, do a subtle dance move and giggle endlessly. Hippety-hop.
When home alone, walk around naked and accept every part of you. Your body is a masterpiece, the finest canvas for your emotions.
Love someone endlessly and unconditionally.
Look in the mirror: Because trust me, you are beautiful.
Smile.

Instagram handle: myspirals
Previous post: Midnight.
Related post: How to: Be poetry.

Addictions and lies.

I’ve made the official Instagram handle for this page (@myspirals). Do follow and stay tuned. (If you’ve written and posted something that you want me to read, use the hashtag #ourspirals)

I’m addicted to coffee. There are more dirty mugs in my sink and empty coffee bottles in my dustbin than the number of people I trust. The first conversation I have in the day is with a steaming mug of coffee that smells of hopes and reality. I wrap my fingers around the warmth and let it wake me up, despite me not having slept at all last night. The bitter taste of coffee burning my tongue is like a pat on the back, and I am all for motivation. I am high on coffee every day.

I’m addicted to music. The melody is my drug and I cannot live without it. I sleep to the voice of Ed Sheeran and wake up to Selena Gomez. Which is why I’d ask you to ‘kiss me’ at night and have anxiety attacks as I run through the jungles of my mind like ‘wolves’ in the morning. I’d relate to the lyrics of a song more than have feelings of déjà vu’s. I’ve been called an introvert, but I am not. I am an extrovert and I socialize a lot with music.

I am addicted to lying. I have this weird habit of telling myself every morning I will sleep that night, even though it is nothing but a white lie. I’ve pretended to be over someone, even though I still look for them in the hallways of my university. I’ve said I am okay way too many times, for even that to be healthy. When you fake a smile often enough, it becomes a habit and your smile is reduced to being just a twitch in your muscles.

I am addicted to her. I am addicted to the way we read poetry to each other like lullabies on a Tuesday night, and the way she giggles at dark humor. I love the way she looks at me in dim lights, and the way she trips over nothing. I love the smell of her hair, honey and coconut. She isn’t sunshine. She is hot chocolate and Christmas.

But most of all, I am addicted to the way the butterflies in my stomach go crazy when she whispers in my ears as we take a sip from the warm mugs of coffee with ‘Skin’ playing somewhere in the house. “I love you too.” Oh, what a beautiful lie.

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Related post: Bare waists and midriffs.

Wake up call.

I’ve made the official Instagram handle for this page (@myspirals). Do follow and stay tuned. (If you’ve written and posted something that you want me to read, use the hashtag #ourspirals)

More often than not,
I’ve slept my problems away.
My problems have been
Like a beast in the dungeon,
Like a dragon in the caves
of the tall golden mountains
that echoes like my mind.
I’ve used sleep as a defense mechanism,
and defeated such dragons,
over and over in my dreams.
My problems have been
Like a task for me,
Like a big step that I have to take,
in order to survive,
amidst the world of flames and cuts.
I’ve used sleep to procrastinate,
and thought everything through.
Used the veil of a perfectionist,
to cover my hopes in a belief of awakening.
My problems have been
Like a clock that is ticking away.
I’ve used sleep as my fingers,
and removed the cell.

Today,
I’ve decided to wake up.

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Related post 1 : Palettes of life.
Related post 2 : It’s okay.

Whisky Words: Project (11)

This is Submission ELEVEN of The Whiskey Words. The Whiskey Words is a writing project (and a giveaway). The winner will be announced on 1st of April.

Still born

there was nothing–

no sound
no movement
no hope

one night you were boldly with me,
and the next morning, gone

unexpected and torrential
in its suddenness and cruelty.

i sleep and breathe and walk around
in emptiness
and try to etch you into my skin,
unsure how much longer
the details of your eyelashes
and gaping mouth
and blue fingernails
will stay with me.

the last bits of you
drip from my body,
sweet smelling remnants of your protection…
that failed.

the fullness of my chest
has begun to evaporate,
a sure sign my body’s dream of you
is really giving up.

i move
frantic but paralyzed.
the clocks and calendars have all shattered.

i share a laugh with Father Time,
knowing now what he knows
cannot be explained
to anyone who has not
housed death.

i count my fingers and count my toes.
how can i still have 10 of each?
this walking grave of mine,
no longer a woman’s body.
it has transformed into a shallow coffin,
scarred by an indescribable kind
of maternal violence.

as i bleed the rest of your being
into my underwear,
i pause
in a hopeless kind of hesitation and stillness
trying to will the process to slow down

begging on the bathroom floor,
please don’t leave me, sweet girl

dear god, please don’t leave me.

– Kathy Gardner (blog)