promises – My Spirals

Broken things stay.

Broken things stay.

I love personifying things that matter in our lives. I’ve done it with Heaven and Hell, with Time, and now this. Poetry and love has to be two of the most important things on that list. So yeah, here’s my attempt that making Poetry and Love just like you and me. Comment below and give me prompts! Enjoy!

Poetry was a twenty year old,
5’7”, super shy but very flirty.
His escape from reality was through metaphors and similes.
“They are the shoulders I choose to cry on,”
he said all the time.
He loved red flowers, beaches, cliches,
and some of the weird things too,
like having Pizza on mountains.

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.

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?
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,

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.
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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Whisky Words: Project (14)

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

Revenge I seek.

Crimson lips fade to pale,
Confessions of Love – a sting in the tale,
It was meant for me, I know it’s so,
Another path, you must go,
A heart of ice calls your name,
No choice you have, to play the game,
Stiff and rigid you play along,
Conform and dance to her merry song,
I watch her eyes, her twitching lips,
Her twisted lies and sarcastic quips,
I stand and stare in disbelief,
Holding on, in silence, to my grief,
Off you go to the maidens lair,
I know in your heart, I must be there?
Can’t you run and escape her grasp,
If only you had a looking glass,
See the story how it should be,
Then you’d know, you should be with me,
What’s her power, has she cast a spell?
Is there a secret, never to tell?
life without you seems so bleak,
Just walk away, why so weak?
Do not laugh and frolic with her,
Remember me, I called you sir?
You promised me love and fairy tale,
My Prince, my knight, but now you bail,
You said you loved me, I believed it was true,
Now I’m confused cos she is with you,
You’ve abandoned me now but what is the cost,
I’m angry inside, broken and lost,
I want to scream, and call you out,
Please sir please sir I want to shout,
I feel like a child, vulnerable and small,
You’ve got nothing to say, nothing at all?
I’ve been discarded left here on the path,
Let me tell you sir, you will feel my wrath,
You’ve used and abused me, I know I am right,
Hang your head in shame Don’ t put up a fight,
You said that you loved me, I thought it was so,
Silly girl, stupid, now I must go,
I’ll hatch a plan , revenge will be sweet,
I won’t be so nice, the next time we meet!
My heart, it is broken, you can’t comprehend,
The damage you’ve caused – you were never my friend.

– Carrie sherbourne (blog)

A necklace of hope.

Ghosts do exist.

The first time she was haunted by one was when she fell in love. When he kissed her for the first time, her hands found his hair, but her thoughts could not find a reason to believe that he would stay. She opened her eyes mid-way, and looked at him and all she saw was her fear. She felt sweat on her forehead, as she pulled away. Her eyes darted here and there as she saw flashes of the last time someone had promised to stay and hadn’t. The ghost of empty promises and broken hearts left her tongue dry. He did not seem bothered at all.
He believed in ghosts because they just wouldn’t let him be. Every time he decided to move on, and build himself a life he wanted, the ghost of the expectations of his parents tied his hand behind him, and slowly choked his will to believe. His wrist had scars of him trying to untie himself, but they were mere reminders of his shattered hopes and dreams.
She just could not forget what he had done to her. Every time she went on a new date, tried to move on, he popped up in her thoughts. She loved him. She still did. How can she move on knowing that he was what she wanted. She wanted expensive champagne, and cheap nail polish and warm blankets with him by her side. The ghost of her past haunted her on every new date, and she just could not let it go.
He did not want to hurt someone. He feared power and authority for the sole purpose of staying unable to inflict pain. He did not trust himself enough to believe that if given the chance, he wouldn’t choose himself over others. He knew that choosing oneself is how you progress, but not at the cost of someone he loved? The ghost of his darkness made him fear himself.
She had lost her friend. Every time she sat on her terrace and gazed at the city that was unaware of her loss, she saw shadows of her friend sitting beside her, a cigarette embraced in her fingers, a carefree smile reaching her eyes. One that is lost can never really be lost again. And so she held onto the ghost of her friend, a shimmering and fading image that made her believe that maybe it would all be okay.
There was no way out of this. He sat in the corner of his room, tears running down his red cheeks. Everything seemed to collapse on him, and he just could not pick himself up again. He wanted to believe, he tried to, but there was nothing to believe in. No hope bloomed in the garden inside his chest. The ghost of hopelessness held a knife to his wrist, and as the blood trickled down, he felt free.

We are all haunted in some way or another. We just have to hold on and believe in ourselves. Ghosts do exist, but just in our heads.

Hope.

“I hope to arrive at my death, late, in love, and a little drunk.” – Atticus

Previous post : The Writing Project.
Related post : You, the universe and stardust.

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Love thyself.

Hey.
I believe that there are so many of you out there who deserve to be read, and heard. So, I am starting a project, wherein I will post compositions made by you on my blog throughout March (and to spice it up a bit, giveaway a book to the author of my favorite post). I’ll choose fifteen of the submissions to post in the month of March. The compositions can be poetry, short stories, or anything you’re mind is dealing with. Love, chaos, society, peace, war, pets, or any other topic you can come up with, go ahead and send it to me. It shouldn’t have been posted anywhere else. (This is for me to be able to provide my readers with new content by new authors.)
DM it on : Instagram, Facebook
Mail : utsavraj3@gmail.com
Or just drop it in the comments. Please do participate, it would turn out to be an amazing month if you do. The giveaway book will be one of my favorites, or yours. We’ll talk it out when you send me your compositions.
For now though, enjoy this post!

“Draw a monster. Why is it a monster?” – Janice Lee

Monsters aren’t people,
They aren’t under your bed.
There’s only one.
The one inside your head.
The one that promises every night
That nothing will be okay,
That life isn’t fair;
That you’re miserable.
The one you believe.
But “every monster
has a sob story.”
You have to listen to,
and talk to,
and love
The monster inside of you.
Because no one else ever did.
You make monsters
and you can heal them.
This is not a war,
This is the first step
you have to take
To love yourself.
Just be careful.

Previous post : Then how come it isn’t?
Related post : Snow.