A new tasteless drink
for embracing voiceless dreams,
fuck the tired senses.
© Shashank Bhardwaj
Tag Archives: Poetry
Senseless Creations.
For clicking a perfect picture,
of a perfectly cooked Ramen,
with eggs beautifully boiled to perfection,
your flabbergasted eyes forget to observe
the tasteful symmetries turning cold; the synchronous diffusion
of the flavor and aroma, conjuring a flood of hunger in your mouth,
eventually gulped in an unapologetic haste.
A long awaited warm nirvana, evaporated
for a moment of senseless creation
that can never fill your insides in reality.
How can you be happy now?
Just how?
© Shashank Bhardwaj
Tryst with Myself
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
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.
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.
Dissolve
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.
© Shashank Bhardwaj
Memory
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.
© Shashank Bhardwaj
Music has been a source of inspiration for my writing, always. The below song tempted me to write this. Listen when free.
Writings to Heaven 