beauty, creative-writing, dream, Fiction & Poetry, Life, Love, Poems, poetry

Repetition

It’s that time of the year again,
where the warm bottles of beer
and graveyards of cigarettes lie untouched,
the tongue savours the breeze of ice jewelled air.
The night turns into an abyss,
Cold slithers in as an irresistible prostitute,
the time decants drip by the drip,
stars swirl with ounces of battling warmth,
there is no hibernation, when you need it.
No pauses, when you press yourself of the edges of dissolution.
It’s pure madness, a cocktail of greed, desire, lust and lack of empathy.
The graveyard is lit, the warm river flows to my heart,
Another blackout. Another hangover,
A slick smile at the mirror.
A cycle of no purposes, repeat.

– Shashank Bhardwaj

beauty, creative-writing, Desire, Fiction & Poetry, Life, Love, Poems, poetry

Rummage

Every tiny strand of this miniscule breeze
rummages through my bones, whispering voicelessly to drown in the unknown.

The kiss of light, is a birth of a memory.
The movement of tongue, is a voice of a dream
The feel of fingertips, is a breath never tasted.

Tell me how to forget all of them
and still exist, like a night without a moon.

– Shashank Bhardwaj

beauty, creative-writing, fiction and poetry, Life, Love, Poems, poetry

Writing in a dream

You wear a skin of butterfly bush,
and bathe in a pond of musk,
a dark ocean slithers in your eyes,
with a breeze of warmth trespassing
flesh and bones.
An elixir of forgetfulness drips by the lips,
while potent desire brews on the tongue,
I sometimes wonder what your voice could do,
in the dark?
The collarbone is a carved symphony
with a pleasant hymn in the rain nights,
Have you ever touched something
and not see it melt and sublimate at the same time,
I feel sorry for your neck, for it is a sublime echo of loneliness,
awaiting a cold drizzle that drips to your waist slowly.
Your hands do not forget your love,
they leave imprints on fleshes of those very lucky.
Well I don’t believe in luck.
I believe in writing about them with my bare hands.
What about you?

– SB

beauty, creative-writing, Desire, Fiction & Poetry, Life, Love, Poems, poetry

Eden

The tongue is heartless servant, it slithers on your neck and lips, like a snake devoid of warm flesh, I feel the warmth and the tremble in cleavage, but I am cursed as in eden.

It smothers the bra slowly, peeking within satanic eyes, the warmth is a thirst for a thing made of out flesh, it multiples while inside, caressing, pressing, Disappearing with eyes,
Your breath is a kiss of blaze burning and I was a winter worth nurturing with hands choking my existence

The breasts caressed slowly, into a tumultuous moment of touch, I trace the tips to its origin, feeling them erect and ready for to pleased, unhook now and lie down, let me taste the eden before being banished forever.

beauty, creative-writing, Fiction & Poetry, fiction and poetry, Heart, Life, Love, Poems, poetry, think

A room with no music

I swallow a room in my mind,
to digest its origins.
Its woodwork churns and mollifies,
I could feel my fingers full of sawdust and laughter,
lost handprints(possibly mine), from the dying
furniture and the floor caress my head.

You will always find a way to meet yourself,
once you are forgotten by everyone.

The lights are turning dim,
I do not know, how to serve light in a tall glass for myself?
Can you teach my fist to hold sands of darkness?
I shall learn somehow, to sprinkle when necessary.

You can learn anything, you want.
But remember to put off the light in the end.

The garden screams with its emptiness,
and my eyes could bear the shrieks.
Is this is how I forget your touch?
Without music? Without sleep?

creative-writing, Death, dream, Fiction & Poetry, fiction and poetry, Life, Love, Poems, poetry

The Girl with the Ouija Board

Dark sinister whisperings
rouse my soul up,
‘Every Tongue has a demon
buried within its veins, for
it gives birth to thirst,
lust and blood.’
She told me before sleeping,

Archaic hymns, butchered lemons
drowned in vinegar, disappeared behind
a mist of lavender smelling candles,
apexed at pentagram made of saffron

I feel her curves turn cold,
the lips turn ominously black,
‘Eyes are windows to this world,
darkness is the passage to all other’
she keeps murmuring,holding my hand
till it is not she anymore.

I could sense it the way my hands are touched,
the way she removes her clothes then
and the way she kisses.
She never told her of her fetishes
and now I can’t even ask.

beauty, creative-writing, Death, dream, Fiction & Poetry, Life, Love, Poems, poetry

Macabre

A sky sculpted of silence,
At behest of a voiceless cry,
Somebody awaits my hymns again.

My tongue swirls itself :
A snake bathing in the burning blood.

The same nightmare again,
Where my veins smell of dead flowers.

The eyes turn into a vehement dark pond.
A feast of wingless ravens, slowly eating themselves to death :
My heart wasn’t that useful anyways.

Come close today , Stay.
Taste this macabre of my lips.

Writings to Heaven

Shashank Bhardwaj

Category Archives: creative-writing