I have a hidden vendetta,
against all the memories you gave,
all the love we shared,
the kisses you stole,
the walks we had,
hand in hand,
now it is all brewing inside,
with rage and nothing else,
I have a hidden Vendetta,
for all beautiful things I had.
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Sometimes I don’t feel like writing,
I am not able to fathom a title,
inside me words fumble,
they slip out my fingers,
coffee spills on my diary,
the stars don’t seem to align,
I fell on the bed frustrated,
cursing those lucky angels,
who used to sit on my shoulders
and watch me write,
I know the mornings won’t be same,
my toes won’t laugh,
heart won’t sing,
Some Other Day, I tell myself,
If i survive such grief
Tonight.
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My Past sometimes plays Russian Roulette with me,
Instead of bullets that may cause sudden death,It uses memories.
The only problem is, it brings me down to the ground.
Every Single Time.
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I have seen people wonder,
I have seen them go crazy,
thinking about what to write about,
they all want blazing responses,
Medals on their dead poem coffin,
that dies as soon as it becomes popular,
they want to be the next Bukowski or something,
as soon as possible,
One day someone asked me,
” What to Write About? ”
and I told him simply,
Once your soul is restless to write,
and an image in the head drowns you somewhere,
when you feel your hands laughing when writing,
then you should write.
Write about that dog who kept you wondering how happy can one be,
about a girl whose prayer made you stand in the traffic,
about the sky that made you head to bar,
about the rain that took you to your past.
Write about what have you inside,
Fuck the fame,people,followers.
Feed your soul till writing again becomes your wanted hangover.
Write yourself out.
Always yourself out.
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Do not cry because you failed,
there should not be shame in that,
You just discovered where you lack.
Rather than living a fake life
full of people about whom you don’t care,
you are now alone with yourself,
better first look the mirror,
Than to look people around,
the places around,
be honest with your heart,
taming this beast is not easy,
It feeds on pride,loathing,fame.
But cries on knowing itself.
Make your heart a drunk,with no judgement at all,
then it would follow the beats as steps,
and you would never fall.
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Shiny and slimy..transparent they seem,
fragile to a breath still they float,
without a care,without a pride,
showing all what is inside,
what if we all were strong bubbles,
all aiming for the sky,
without any darkness inside
till the untimely burst
that would shower droplets of happiness everywhere.
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I still remember the chilling wind,
when I stood without a jacket on,
having travelled a thousand miles,
to hear out something I never expected,
Even after 3 Years,
even the faintest memory,
give me chills in the warmest quilt.
“I can’t”, She said.
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Writings to Heaven 