The Poetry Marathon

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.

Pain
Blinding
Excruciating
Impossible to breathe
Impossible to speak
Pain
From my lungs
To my heart
Only feeling left
Of being tore apart

And yet
When asked if
I was okay
I said yes
Yes I am
More afraid of
Worrying them
Of being a
cumbersome presence
Than of the vision of death

I should have said no
No, I am not okay
I need help
But regrets don’t, can’t
Change the past
So here I am
After everything
Practicing to be honest
To tell them
Yes… I am in pain.

Dream Children
(Title taken from Charles Lamb’s Essay)

Black hair and brown eyes
Obviously!

Mischievous, like me
But sensible, like him

My love for books
And his passion for life

Dramatic, like me
Gorgeous, like him

And full of kind strength
Like we both could never be.

A painting with blue hues
Portrays a stone buddha in all his glory
Serenity, tranquility, contentment
The expression not unknown
A show of benevolence

And it’s me, who looks at this visage
Reaching for, wishing for
Who knows what?
Maybe the peace reflected
Maybe it’s the thought of mercy?

Praying, without words
Asking, without opening arms
Thinking, is it possible
To have something without paying for it
In this world…

Of Gods, made of stone
Of people, made of greed
Of my own soul, made of avarice
And a heart, full of blood and life
Whose price was the death of a star.

The tinted glass of
my windows Keeps the sun out
But the light is Not
something That can be stopped by
Curtains, the cracks remain still.