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

Tryst with Myself

broken-mirror-lake-erik-johansson-1jpg

I was cuddled up in a sheet that day,
watching the raindrops trace on my reflection,
on the dusty window.
A sound of a drop reverberated more
than the ghastly silence.
In a few minutes, the dust melted away.
The sky wasn’t bright, neither was it dark.
It was an essential gray, promising of a tempting void
that smelled of a fresh petrichor
and a floor made of broken glasses
that has forgotten to bleed the flesh.

I fed my everlasting reflections
to these broken mirrors
till the floor smelled of my debauchery
of selling facades of appeasement

I made a tryst with myself,
to be brutally honest
to my purpose on this planet.

And so, here am I,
abiding the tryst,
It’s the mellow beginning.
A warm end awaits, I believe.

© Shashank Bhardwaj

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

Tea

She once asked,
for the morning tea
with those sparkling eyes
full of thirst.
I paid no heed knowingly
to let her suffer sweetly from within.

I didn’t expect though:
In the warm drowsiness
she would prepare it with her soft hands
after removing my shorts
and gulp it all in,
slowly and steadily
keeping my eyes closed.

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

Write – Rant

With sometimes eyes closed
and sometimes open,
you see the unseen
and unsee the seen.

Your words lie somewhere in between
the voices you cannot condemn openly
and the voices that push you away
from getting soaked up from this sunlight of reality.

You are divided between writing something truly honest
and writing something that masks the truth
so perfectly, it becomes a voiceless waterfall falling
over these incumbent eardrums of the readers.

You hold the might to culture a society
and rationalize its view, shielding it from
the tranny, oppression and unequal treatment.

So next time when you look in the mirror,
remember you are a needle lost in the grass,
you can either sew the ground to cover up
whatever is wrong,
or you can stab others to let them find out themselves.

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

Dissolve

Daytona Beach Day 1

The sky is a sleeping sea; blessed
with more hues than blue.
I wrote to the unseen wave
that carried the scent of your hair,
washed in rose water, to diffuse slowly and subtly
in this sea of your living memory.
Many poems disappeared since then
eloping with the memories of yours
carried away by these voiceless waves.

The Balcony used to honeysuckles
that bloomed in late-spring, the salt-laden air,
and the noise of impatient seagulls is now
a desolated and unfinished memoir of our time.
I have lost the count of the number of times
my syllables rearrange in these crimson evenings
to whisper your name.
It’s an unending charade to dwell in the past.
but no options satisfy my desire to smell joy
and laughter one last time.

If I could walk into my past tonight,
by drowning myself in a storm near the shore
till my present just wears off somehow.
I would, for you.
Even a thousand times over.

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

Memory

364

The Night’s palanquin sways
encumbered by the stars bathed
in jasmine water and moonlight

A breeze blows through the pond,
the ripples slowly undulate my thoughts,
A shadow of time keeps disappearing
into my garden of memories tonight.

Who are you?
Whom I do not recall,
Even with these eyes drowned in wine.
Even with a thousand dreams, every night.

Are you a sorrow, longed and forgotten?
When happiness rained all over my city
and I became an ocean that night.

Music has been a source of inspiration for my writing, always. The below song tempted me to write this. Listen when free.

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

Walking through the Mirror

It happens sometimes
between winter and the sultry summer,
my words and visions refuse to mate,
no amount of alcohol urges them
to this universal transfixion
on a piece of a patient paper

I have no choice left,
I visit the dusted mirror
in my inhospitable washroom again
the vortex of time swallows me inherently,
as I fall through the voiceless oceans
and painstaking cheap bars
that are out of beer.

I walk through the autumnal rains
where the birds have learned to hide
and the leaves refuse to be touched.
The maidens are no longer beautiful,
Houses full of Japanese crockery
and European paintings
are half submerged in filthy ponds
to be admired by filthy fishes
with filthy brains.

The kids are running and laughing
on the roads but I can’t see their faces.
The dogs no longer bark, but they have
tears of joy and my hands have forgotten to
pet these loyal creatures. Their tails don’t wag now.
They refuse to acknowledge my existence.

I see my twin somewhere.
The only one who smiles back at me.
Contented but not happy,
his eyes are his stories,
his soft hands; devoid of typing
are his unwritten poems.
I have to kill him.

Before he swims out of this vortex.
Before he swims into me.
Before he falls in love with himself.

AnatomyofaPlaneCrash

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

Writings to Heaven

Shashank Bhardwaj

Tag Archives: Life