Let’s live forever.
“You know, I’d heard that if you fall in love with a poet, you’d live forever as poetry. But you haven’t written something for me or used metaphors for me ever since I said I loved you. Why is that?”
“I cannot believe you don’t remember why,” I giggled. “You remember how we partied the night we told each other we were in love? We were both six shots down but only you were drunk because of the alcohol. I’d willed myself to not be drunk because I wanted to remember every bit of that day. You asked me that night, after thirty-seven minutes of confessing your love, to never write a poem on you. I was still thinking of how you’d told me that I made your heartbeat the same way it beat when you were swimming – your favorite thing in the whole wide world, and how there were a hundred butterfly strokes in your stomach when I kissed you. But I managed to ask why you didn’t want me to write on you. You told me you didn’t want to be here after I was gone, even if as a happy love poem.”
“That does sound plausible. Let’s change that for a bit. I don’t want reasons why you love me. I want metaphors. Shoot for the stars, poet!” You laughed, six shots down again.
“Okay, poetry. You’re the eighth color of the rainbow. I know there are ‘supposedly’ only seven, but I think of the sky as the eighth color. Humans tend to limit things but poetry doesn’t believe in that. Like the beautiful sky, I see you everywhere. You’re my seventh shot of this tequila. I’m sure I’ll get drunk if I have it, just like I’m drunk on you all the time. Do you know the feeling you get when you go home at the end of the day and your puppy leaps onto you? You’re it. You’re my panipuri (an Indian tasty dish), novels, green t-shirt, my heart. You’re everything that makes me happy.”
“I think if I write a poem on you (it’ll be pretty bad but who cares?) and you write one on me, I won’t be here alone as a happy love poem. We’ll be the happy love poem. But you should know, you’re very cheesy.”
“and you’re very beautiful.” I kissed you.
Into poetry? – Soulmates?
Instagram – @myspirals
The title is also the precaution I’d like you to take before reading the poem. While this post is fictitious, I don’t know where the line stops. So help me out, okay?
I wrote this because I know how tough it can be with triggers all around you. This post is not going to help heal you but maybe it’ll let you know we all have triggers. If you don’t know what triggers your friend’s bad memory, ask and try to not hurt them. It’ll mean so much to everyone. I hope you like this poem. Enjoy 🙂
Triggers come in all shapes and sizes.
Continue reading Trigger alert.
A moving train,
a pizza boy, an autumn leaf,
26 alphabets, crop-tops,
anger, the chains of a swing.
It could be anything.
Little pockets of love.
Hey! I’ve seen people search for love so much, I decided to write something on a part of it. This is my attempt. It’s about where a certain someone looks for love and where she’ll end up finding it. Do tell me if you like it. Give me prompts in the comments below and follow me on Instagram! I post written stuff there too. Enjoy 🙂
I’ve seen you look for love
Continue reading Little pockets of love.
in everything that is over-sized.
You went to beaches,
hoping love would hop out of the waves
looking very metaphor-esque.
You stared at the moon,
waiting for it to confess
that it has hidden ‘the one’ in
the folds of its white poetry paper.
You asked the mountains if they had seen it,
hoping love was somewhere in the brown maze.
Instead, they echoed back tales
of lost men with galaxy eyes.
The closet for the stars.
This isn’t your 1800s Shakespearean poem. This is the 21s century rendition of the word Poetry. Type: Poem x story-telling. I hope you like it. Comment if you do. Let me know 🙂
The ’90s weren’t easy,
but then now is not very different.
When my father came out as gay
we had a long chat.
I’d grown up with two dads,
but I’d never questioned why my pigtails
were made with my father’s sturdy hands
when others had it soft.
One day in school made me question why.
When I asked,
he smiled and told me everything.
He told me about the ’90s
like it was a tragic song
with all rhyme but no reason.
‘I was in the closet for 20 years,
and it wasn’t just four wooden walls
grabbing my throats and suffocating me.
It was a Narnia of nightmares.’
Of course, he made fantasy references. I was five.
‘When I came out,
things were very different. Acceptance was
a choice. Not a human right.
It got better.’
He made me understand
everything wrong with ‘time’ when it was young
and made me believe
that things will always get better;
‘the star does not shine on its first day’.
When I turned twelve
and fell in love with my best friend,
But there was no closet for us stars anymore.
so I smiled and kept looking.
I found better friends
and they stayed.
‘Something is better than nothing’
my father used to say.
I guess we have the ‘something’ today.
It’s time for everything.
Previous post: Travel bird
Give me prompts in the comment section.
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:
“She has cancer,
I’m so sorry.”
Previous post : Kisses.
Related post : Stay.
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