beauty, Death, Desire, Fiction & Poetry, fiction and poetry, Life, Love, Poems, Poetry, Writings

A Girl’s heart is never hers.

Call it a predicament,
Or the nature’s curse,
As soon the girl blossoms into a woman
her heart is never hers.

It belongs to the roots:
Her parents, her family,
Her unknown love, devoid of the sorrowful meetings.
A transaction she never prefers.

She sit in her balcony
For the sky teases her for sorrowful palette.
These wonders if everything, falls in her place
This heart transacted with a pulse of sorrow,
blooms into the autumn light of hope.

There is something about your face,
I wonder and wonder and never fail.
This heart somehow I feel is mine, tell me a price.
is it A knife, some blood, a meticulous sacrifice ?

Come back now, in the winter we promised.
Retrace yourself, somehow.
This heart deluded of our voices.
its our, for now. forever somehow

Make it the last sun,
the last moon,
the last meteor.
I want this time to last.
For chase me now, as you can,
As spring chases winter.
every then, somehow

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

Yesterday

Yesterday I thought of you
And the yesterday before
It seems as if my yesterdays
Are full of nothing more.
It is not only yesterdays
of which you’ve entered in

For tomorrow is soon to come
Where more thoughts of you begin
to never end, dissolve or disappear.
This is my beautiful paradox.

My prison without keys
My evening without the sun
My heart without memory
For you are always there.

Articles, creative-writing, Desire, dream, Fiction & Poetry, Life, Love, Poems, poetry, Writings

Burning Sabbaticals

It has been a long hiatus, I have migrated to a new city, joined a new workspace , made an entire library and workstation but I miss the soothing of the writing I used to have. This hiatus grows on me, every time I try to sleep in the night, I wonder how my words sleep, aching, bellowing in despair to be entangled in a original thought.

It’s difficult to say where to begin and why, I must excuse the exits and replenish this sight. For today although I am drowning in my bed in this darkness, from tomorrow I shall be burning this sabbatical. It’s time to pour, outpour and flood the thoughts, lets begin, shall we?

Life, Love, Poems, Poetry

Bear

as you drift away in the bus,
whose windows are made up of just
last night’s raindrops,
remember these castles
and cathedrals : the memoirs of a fading
glorious past, these icy beaches and almost sun kissed shorelines,
melancholic clouds, this wind just before it rains again.
This all brings me back to you.
So if your fingers tingle with a breeze,
Its just me dreaming with you.
I am not there but somewhere
I shall slip into your heart
with a smile for no reason.
Bear this presence till the sun wakes us up.

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.

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.

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

Writings to Heaven