The Poetry Marathon

A sparkly grey sweater is who I am most,

Comfortable in the skin I call my own,

Minimalistic colours and smart shades,

With a shine that I carry around with me.

Someone who builds a fort with her books,

And sits inside her pen scratching paper,

Music playing really loud throughout the day,

Occasionally belting out lyrics with the artist.

Someone who sometimes chooses to take up projects,

And pour the whole of my soul into it,

Despises cutting corners or compromising,

The final product having no choice but to reflect my idea.

Someone who takes up too much sometimes,

Making lists and schedules through it all,

Hoping that I’ll find in me the grit to stick to them,

Skipping on sleep and calming myself with shows.

Someone who loves to talk to people,

But still needs to have her own space,

Completely taken by the many ways of social media,

Always trying to find the balance between funny and serious.

Someone who loves animals more than anything else,

Despises judgement more than anything else.

Someone who loves the smell of books and rain,

Whose favourite muse is the ocean and its beautiful shore.

Someone who likes to study rainbows,

Grinning every time she hears thunder.

Someone who names all of her favourite things,

Someone who loves her authors and musicians,

Someone who likes her hair short,

Someone who loves to make a big deal of things.

A person who loves to ask questions,

A person who loves to understand people,

A person who can’t sit in a chair right,

A person who loves to exist loudly!

~thryaksha

Jabbering and yammering,

Talking into tomorrow,

What’s a clock?

I don’t know her!

Laughter echoing,

Through screens and minds alike,

Holding hands up to our ears,

Trying to cut off the piercing noise.

These the only times of silence,

Between hours of conversations,

Talking over each other,

Pouting when you’re not heard.

Chaos to the very core,

Everyone in conflicting moods,

So much energy and connection,

Though one’s speech is lagging.

But if you take a moment,

Just be still and listen,

You can feel the joy in your bones,

The bond stronger than the internet connection!

~thryaksha

BASED ON “JUST BE STILL AND LISTEN”

Tragedy always celebrated,

In all forms of art,

Pain glorified,

Accepting with open arms.

The fuel behind the artist,

Bringing the art in them to life,

Lives of real people,

In exchange for the life of art.

But what about the tortured,

But still alive,

With no lives to pay,

In exchange for art.

Living a constant double life,

But living in neither places.

In an in-between state,

But at least you’re alive…

~thryaksha

BASED ON THE QUOTE: “I stopped thinking about extreme grief as the sole vehicle for great art when the grief started to take people with it. And I get it. The tortured artist is the artist that gets remembered for all time, particularly if they if they either perish or overcome. But the truth is that so many of us are stuck in the middle. So many of us begin tortured and end tortured, with only brief bursts of light in between, and I’d rather have average art and survival than miracles that come at the cost of someone’s life.” – Hanif Abdurraqib

They say elephants can remember,

Elephants so ingenious,

With their ever present gravitas,

With their power reverberating.

Their trunks so nifty,

They pick things up like no other,

Literally and figuratively,

Heavy and slight.

Smelling water from miles away,

Hardly need a compass,

Always know where to go,

Always as wise as the owl.

Stepping over land mines,

Picking up earthly rumbles,

From their distant brethren,

And when mother earth has cramps.

Hearing trouble from miles away,

Those majestic ears not just for show,

They say elephants can remember,

But they can do so much more than that…

~thryaksha

What if I’d said yes,

At every point of my life.

Every opportunity that came my way,

Taking it up without a moment’s thought.

The answer to every question,

That was ever asked of me.

If I’d given in to life,

Accepting its way of course as my own.

Where would I be now?

I have to wonder,

Would I be Queen with royal subjects,

Would I be a killer my knife dripping with blood?

Would I be a philanthropist giving away all I have,

Would I be the person on the other side of the blade?

What if I’d taken the road more travelled,

Would I end up like everyone else?

Or would my ordinary choices,

Set me apart from everyone else?

Simply because no one is normal,

Simply because I myself am not normal,

Though my choices are…

~thryaksha

Little people running around,

Chasing each other shrieking.

Remember being that little,

Remember the world revolving around you?

Big hopes in their little minds,

Imaginations vast but small at the same time.

A little universe around each of them,

The planets and moons forming halos.

The world, so different,

From that little height.

Emotions so intense,

Blacks and whites, no greys.

A burning curiosity,

To know, know, and know,

The need for affection,

The need to stay close.

Big ideas in their little minds,

Spectacular memories they might not remember,

Paving the way for the whole of their lives,

As they chase each other, shrieking…

~thryaksha

Why is my crown so garish,

With spikes and thorns and so,

My face rotting and disintegrating,

My eyes the colour of blood.

Why am I dressed in capes,

And long gowns kissing the floor,

The grey faded and old,

A rusty scythe in my clutches.

Just a girl in jeans,

My sweatshirt with ridiculous text,

Eyes the colour of coffee,

A crown that keeps falling off my head.

Why do you love Life so much,

And hate me so much,

After all, I’m her twin,

But my job is taking lives…

~thryaksha

The music plays softly in my room

As I sit swaying in the dark

Eyes looking out the window

Contentment in my soul

A smile on my face

Perfect sunrise

Finally

I feel

Calm

~thryaksha

Straight lines and precise curves,

The intricate crosses in it,

Not crossing in any other way,

Not a scratch out of place.

Blocks and shades,

Within the lines,

Out of the box,

But still within the lines.

Controlling every move I make,

Making sure its picture perfect,

Art, abstract,

But only my version of it.

I’m holding on to the reins,

So tightly my hands hurt.

Never willing to lose even a smidge,

Of the control I’m clutching on to.

The art still beautiful,

Taking its own course,

Growing by itself,

Letting it lead me in the dark.

But I hate the dark,

I love knowing,

No, I can’t do it,

I clutch the reins harder…

~thryaksha

I’ve always wanted to see snow,

To be in its cold embrace,

To watch as it falls around me,

My presence not getting in the grand way of things.

Appreciate every single flake,

For being so uniquely itself,

Yet looking so beautiful,

When it melds in with its brethren.

I’ve wanted to stretch my hand out,

Watch as it lands in my palm,

Feel how soft Mother Nature can be,

Yet feel the power of her might.

Decorating the trees and roofs,

Never mind if its one of her own,

As we put up lights on all of them too,

Her children and ours melding into each other.

The beauty of the snow,

And her dance as she falls,

Remaining as beautiful as she is,

Not minding if we’re there to see…

~thryaksha