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

Stare

you are most beautiful
when you sleep–
when the coffee-toned notes of your skin
brew, a silent language

while your perfect lips are too tired to doubt my eyes
now, the dark mist of your breath
trickles down my neck
I wait,
I stare at you
unwaveringly.

outside there is a trail of rain,
and the wind
in the willow cage
whispers

as if it dares to tell
the moon and
all the listening night
that this silverlight should not
touch you, in front of me.

Standard
beauty, creative-writing, dream, Fiction & Poetry, fiction and poetry, Life, Poems, poetry, Work from Home

Forever

To write about you,
Is it to dream about a song.

The humming of your voice
Is a symphony sometimes.

Do you see my heart dancing
In all the flames you set within me?

Do you feel the warmth that brews
within me, as the echo of your voice
slithers into my soul.

If you are the music,
then teach me to dance,
alone, unapologetically, forever.
Just once.

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

Rehearsal of Loss

float sublimely,
for there is no ground beneath the toes today.
The white verandah delves a sight
as you move untouched eclipsed by warm fingertips.
the water shall soon forget itself,
it has no memory of your existence.

White voids and bright wine.
melanchony’s cocktail : a melodious blur
beneath a bright but dusty chandelier,
We have nothing to break
our silence escaped through the white windows.

we retire,
listening to the winds
and sipping some wine,
rehearsing
our exits from one-another,
our exits from ourselves,
our exits from our pasts.

Standard
beauty, Fiction & Poetry, Life, Love, Poems, Poetry, Writings

Drown

Like the waters in Greece,
blue, succulent , tapered into viscous curves
stay now, don’t leave.
This sigh reinvents itself more warmly,
sensing your departure.

Let me dream of it as you disappear,
The bed with white linen reminding us 
of our flesh embellishing our existence.
A touch is what remains etched on my eyes.
Somehow now unseen, untouched.

What would the yellow kiss of sunlight greet?
A smile made of dreams?
Or dreams devoured off smiles.
The plants exhale hues of tamarind,
warm green tea succors the seperation,
In my wake,
I am next to a bottle of our emptiness.
I should have drowned when you stared me last night.

Standard
beauty, Desire, erotica, Fiction & Poetry, fiction and poetry, Heart, Life, Poems, Poetry, Work from Home, Writings

Felt

The unknown are felt,
With hands moving inside,
Feeling the black bra, while
your face turns red with joy of ecstacy.
Everything turns to water, your lips below
turn into a fountain of desire,
and your legs closing with wetness.
Waiting to be touched
Waiting to be consumed
Waiting to be felt

Shashank Bhardwaj

Standard
Books, creative-writing, erotica, Fiction & Poetry, Life, Love, Poems, poetry

Warm

Her whispers turned into subtle moans.
The breathe turned warmer and warmer.
Her nails dug deep into the back.
As each inch of the curve is felt by bare cold hands.
She just cannot wait for the climax now.
The lust will spread within her,
With every thrust.
This will be the end and beginning
of the wet warm climax she deserves.

Shashank Bhardwaj

Standard
Articles, fiction&writing, Freehand Writing, india, Social Media, think, Work from Home

Blight of Social Commentary

Let me paint this visual for your eyes, It is a lazy laid back warm afternoon, the verandahs are still your only quinessntial medium of communication with world and people outside without stepping out of the comfort of your home. A glance from a verandah to another is an invitation in silence, it is a language of intimation with eyes. This weather draws families to this pod for every human is a social animal.Over tea or coffee with snacks, discussions brew within and outside the family and they ususally end there itself. They revolve around the upcoming world cup or the local elections, few people discuss markets and some pupils dilate at such whisperings. Mostly it is the gossip that survives a session, the potpurri of happenings around the society or sometimes the world is where the aroma of excitement never dies within one room but spreads from house to house. It was a time when thoughts had a very little chance in becoming a idea that grips a nation overnight.

Things have changed dramatically, technology whose purported meaning was to make life easier has now engaged societies, people or even nations at scales unimaginable. Every single thought now has the capabilitiy of become an idea. No matter good or bad or worse. With the means of communication at our fingertips, is the conscious movement of people driven by an idea tearing down the social constructs of “individualistic decisions and its sole consequences”? In simpler words, do we still have the capacity to originate an original idea and stand by it ? Or even better, do we have the time even to sit and gauge the idea that is being pushed down our throats? Can we like old times, sleep over a perception, or research over an idea? Is the entire construct of developing ideas and perception has been affected by the huge unavoidable influx of social commentary driven by humans drunk on an Idealogy?

In a time, where the definition of freedom is debated, can we debate the individualistic freedom of making self driven decisions? It is almost ironical that this is a social commentary, another idea pushed down by a social means but there is no end to this circle. I would sleep over this off, Its a weekend, let it be like that.

Shashank Bhardwaj


Standard