The Poetry Marathon

A room with purple walls
Decorated with childish hand-made posters
Exactly three anime mugs
And various knick-knacks
Of all colors…
The mis-match, the chaos, to me
Is what feels like home…
A small space to exist
And just breathe
Without worrying about
The gazes of others.

(POV: because I read one too many conspiracy theories…. The Poetry Marathon is stuck in a time loop. Even after completing it again and again, the time reverts back to the 23rd hour. The poet’s realise this but the memories reset with each time loop… Disorientation, delusion and chaos ensues)

Time Loop

I am not sure how much time has passed
It always comes back to the 23rd hour
This endless loop, of thinking, writing, realising…
Realising — I have done this before
Not a deja vu, I assure
The time, it’s strange and we were just caught
In a mischief it planned
Or was it someone else?
A Halfer?
A Quitter?
Who can say?
Just a single fact remains…
It always comes back to the 23rd hour
This endless loop, of thinking, writing, realising…
Realising —
???

Wake up
Or not
There is no meaning to life
After all
It’s an illusion
The choice
Destiny itself
Nothing more than a rigged game
Wake up
Or not
It’s not your choice
After all
Because you are alive
You will need to get up and move
Sooner than later
Living is suffering…
After all.

A dirt road by the green fields
A lone car, traversing through puddles
The only remaining proof
Of last night’s shower
Apart from the vibrant green
Standing out even more in
The dreary weather…
It’s going to be a long drive home.

It was just there
Atop the old hill
A little, cozy abode
With windows facing the sea

The doors creaked
So did the floorboards
The smell of old wood
Lingering in the air

And when you looked to the side
You could see paintings, pictures
All of sea, the scenery from the window
Remain forever unchanged, after all.

The night in the city
Isn’t much different from the day
Less people and less cars
But the bustling still remains
Because it’s at this time
Under the stars
That they begin their day
Looking like any other passer by
You can’t tell them apart
From people you may see during the day
But for the eyes
Those reflect what they are truly within
Full of stars and just as dark
As the night sky, they dwell under
Never look at them in the eyes though
It’s easy to lose your way home
Once you do
For when you gaze at the abyss
It gazes right back at you.

(A mini response to the prompt. It’s interesting and I definitely want to get back to it.. but not today.. I might start crying **sigh**)

SELF-PORTRAIT

Crooked nose, duck lips, gap teeth
Loose clothes, with flabs of cellulite beneath
Average height, stubby fingers, short nails
Gave up on make-up after all the diy fails
Yes, that’s me, huddled between books, chips and candy
Also, more than wine, I like brandy.

In this Universe, there exists but one

truth, though it does come in different forms.

Death and Rebirth- what is created, must

be destroyed. To make way for the new and

yet, a trace of true self exists within

the false self. A part of the old moulds the

new, and finds a new form, new life within.

Death comes, inevitably, for the one

who is born. New life taking shape from the

ashes left behind. The new replaces

the old and yet a part of old exists

in the new. Death and Rebirth are both true.

(Note: the Title apparently means ‘Death and Rebirth’ in Italian… That’s what I read.

The line “And yet a trace of true self exists within the old self” is something I read on Tumblr as well. I don’t know its origin, but it sounded cool.)

Bright, blinding light
Greeted me as I looked
At him, for the first time
Like he was a miniature sun
Warm, bright, full of smiles.

Drawn to him, I was
Like the moon, cold
But couldn’t help wanting
A part of light
A part of the bright warmth.

And when everything was over
I realised, too late
The sun’s warmth is due to distance
It burns, itself and anything else
That comes close

It’s kindness, born from fire
The warmth, almost cruel in
How unbearable it really is
And like Icarus, it was me falling
Into the ocean of despair.

A touch is a powerful thing
It can express so much more
Than just the presence
One’s state of being.

A touch can exude warmth
For comforting weary hearts
Or it can be cold
A sign of displeasure (or hypothermia!)

A touch can help you
Paint a completely different picture
Or just fill in the details
Of an already existing one

A touch comes with its own emotions
And lets one see
What’s below the surface
Where sight doesn’t work at all

A touch is a powerful thing indeed
Being able to convey
So much more of the world around than
Just a part of it that we actually see.