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

Kamikaze

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The black coat drenches,
The drizzle traces my hidden skin,
For it is so tired
of caressing the lifeless muddy grounds.

It has learned to leave my eyes untouched.
It has been practicing this for long.
His own Kamikaze,
Where it slithers on a body
full of life,
and separate lifelessly, into a bright void

Reincarnations? Nirvana?
Does it even feel like tasting them?
Just an inexplicable bursting orgasm,
that bursts its body into a million pieces.

Yeah, suck on that!
You all Religious Dickheads.

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

Why?

How do you define complexity?
A thing that is complex in nature?

Like the blood is red in colour,
because it is red.

It doesn’t make any sense
It does make all the sense.

My breath shall leave me someday,
because it is not entirely mine

It does make me fear death.
It does not make me fear anything.

My heart yearns for someone, again and again.
Because I cannot understand the yearning.

It does make me yearn for her.
It does make me want to stop.

I don’t know why.
Why do I not know?

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

The Facade of Symmetry

Symmetry

How brutal would it be,
to draw a line in the air on something
of interest, with your eyes:
to be in awe of the subdued parallax
and then simply call it beautiful.

Won’t your fingers itch before doing so?
Won’t they feel the need to caress the surface
before labeling its existence beyond question?

Won’t your tongue go dry of thirst
seeing its colors untasted and unspilled.

Do you really love,
symmetry to this extent?
You forgot the chaos
you were born in.

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

Forget your Touch

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?

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

Prized

Bound, tied and muted to surprise,
you lay down on my bed, naked as a prize.
I veil your eyes in this never ending darkness,
whispering to intensify this sumptuous treat,
As I pour freshly molten wax drops all over your body,
to make sure that tonight, you cannot sleep,

Come warm my hands now slowly ,
Take them between your tempting legs,
I will try to melt them with my tongue,
If you just tell me ‘Yes!’

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

Grief

A distance between nothingness
and hushed whispers, measured in silence,
where you throw your slippers away
and drown into the shallowest pond you could find,
just to disappear for a moment.

There is desolated piano
somewhere in between,
shedding its skin,
living off the mosses.
your hands do not remember
the melody, they have turned
into voiceless eyes.
The music never fades though,
the breath never ends,
the skin never melts.
there are no banks of hope,
It is just you and an emptiness within
mating shamelessly, producing progenies
that never stop wailing.

You want to swim,
You want to drink the pond away,
but the thirst dried ages ago.
So you wait for Sun,
To end it brightly.
Someday.

Shashank Bhardwaj

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

Summer

Trace her curves
and the silhouetted hips,
the soft swollen breasts
await the touch
at the hidden crevices.
The nectar drips
begging to be explored
by the glazed fingers
and thirst ridden tongue.
It should be long dry summer,
Let us be wet like never before.

Writings to Heaven