Blue, Pink, Grey

Blue, Pink, Grey

The strangest thing I’ve seen her do is build a sky on her own. She took a piece of paper and a blue crayon and started coloring from the top left. She colored diagonally, and when she was half-way through, I thought she’d stop and pick up a different color to finish. The sky’s never all blue. Sometimes a little red seeps in and it can look beautiful and at other times, it’s white, full of clouds, as if it is a clean slate for you to look at and reboot. It blushes pink sometimes because there are so many poets constantly flirting with the sky. And sometimes, the sky sees people for what they are and goes grey.

Continue reading Blue, Pink, Grey

Strangers with Pizza boxes.

Strangers with Pizza boxes.

I hope you like this. Read, comment, enjoy, and smile! 🙂

If you look carefully
when walking on a busy street,
you’ll see rainbow kite strings around the neck
of every stranger.
Tales of broken reds,
ribbons of blue,
poems of brown eyes,
micro-tales of turquoise skies
and a thousand more colorful stories.
But only if you look carefully.
If you do not,
they’ll just be flesh and blood
and you’ll remain flesh and blood too.
Of course, eyes won’t do all the talking,
but do let them start
and then your lips can bring the stories to life.

I’ve tried.
That’s how the Pizza boy became my best-friend.
Pizza one,
he was just a man in red
with a beautiful smile.
Pizza two,
I saw his eyes
and the wrinkled galaxies his smile caused.
I saw how his shirt was half-tucked in,
very similar to mine
and he had sports shoes on.
Pizza three,
He told me his favorite sport
and I told him I wrote poetry.
Together, we gave football a human story.
The ball that was of no man
and no fields.
The ball that fell in love with the net.
Together, we laughed at the horrible story.

I guess you get the idea.
See, look, converse, connect.

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A twist of fate.

A twist of fate.

Keyla lived in a world where mythologies were the real deal. It was common to be in the presence of the god of the sea or hear stories from witnesses of age-old wars like the Mahabharata. Her day looked something like this: waking up when the sun sang songs loud enough for the world to hear, working all day on things that were routine but barely mattered and sleeping when the stars thought it was time. The Trojan war had just recently ended and things were slowly starting to get back to normal. Normal for Keyla’s world meant her neighbors had finally stopped making weapons and hiding food. Keyla always felt like a misfit.

While the war was going on and the cities were busy fighting, Keyla had plenty of time to do whatever she wanted. She loved writing fictitious short stories. That is how her myth started.

Fifteen years after the Trojan war had finished, a paper – so old that words had started fading and the paper had started turning yellow – surfaced. It was camouflaged in Autumn leaves and a kid found it when he was frantically searching for his mother’s lost golden earrings. His priorities changed immediately. There was a story written on it that the world slowly started idealizing. The protagonist of the story, named Titus, lived in a crazy world with magical boxes called electronics. The reason why people idealized him was that he was capable of becoming anything he wanted. He could be a writer or a singer or a lover or even a farmer – and it would still make him happy because it would be his choice and not a forced routine. His powers – not supernatural at all, only human – drove this mythological world insane.

Keyla’s name was written at the very bottom but had faded enough to not be obvious to those who paid no attention to detail. The only ones who did were all misfits – and they kept quiet about it. More than three thousand years later, in a world where the tables have turned, I’m sitting here reading Keyla’s backstory and I have just one question scribbled on the backside of the print-out of her story.

“If they dreamt of the powers we have, why can’t we use them?”

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Pendants and tattoos.

Pendants and tattoos.

Elisabeth’s routine that day was very similar to all the other days. She woke up looking like what she would call “a tornado mess”, wore a t-shirt with a baby elephant’s picture on it and ate rainbow cereal. Of course, every choice has a backstory to it. Her sister had died because of a tornado and Elisabeth found humor and realization in calling herself a tornado mess. She used to live in a village when she was only eight Continue reading Pendants and tattoos.

My therapist talks too much.

My therapist talks too much.

I wanted to set a comical/happy tone and mood which is why I wrote ‘happy poems‘ and now this. Why did I want to do it? Tomorrow, this blog will be a year old and so, I have a few announcements. That’s why! Do drop by tomorrow at 12 pm (GMT). Enjoy this fictitious piece, meanwhile! It is one of my favorites.

“You’re poetic, you know?” I told my therapist, who was a forty-year-old single mother. Her husband had committed suicide thirty years ago and her PTSD is what drove her to help others get better.

“I do. I wanted to be a poet when I was eighteen,” she smiled. Continue reading My therapist talks too much.