Poetry

My Body is Homeless

Raging extremities
contained in my flesh
crawling through my brain
enough to cleave me into two

How could it be possible
to contain so many of me
in myself
and yet feel homeless
in my own body

How do I know which
one is me
and which one
I should be running away from

I just want to reconcile
all the different things I am
to become one
to become me
to finally feel at home

 

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Poetry

The sun shines on my grave

You’re like half-forgotten dreams,
and the perfect colour of night turning to light.

The time of restlessness and recklessness,
when pain is inconsequential and unimportant.

It’s like the moment after the laugh dies on the lips,
or just the beginning of a smile.

The tilt of the head, considering,
when the air is heavy with uncertainty.

I’m like a grave, newly dug open,
with sun shining, like on the first day of summer.

Place roses on my grave, decide now,
or come, lie here with me.

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Poetry

Misfit

I wore rounded shoes on a square tiled floor and tried to avoid the lines but I almost always never won.

I saw the floating cloud, so perfectly suspended like newly washed linen on a hanger, and I played games, made up.

I spoke too quickly, too loudly, always honestly. When no one was around.

I had these great conversations, in my head; with a different person everyday. You see, I quickly changed.

It wasn’t easy making friends, but it was harder still, to keep them. And that was a harsh lesson to learn.

I was not a genius, but I was good at a lot of things. And I found out, good was never enough.

I was neither sad, nor happy; I wasn’t lonely, although often I was alone.

I noticed peculiarities, and stared too long. Maybe, maybe everyone thought that I was finding faults. But I always looked in wonder.

I was a misfit. And I just wanted people to see me for who I was: A girl trying to fit in.

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Poetry

Think of you

I’ll think of you as the stars start to fade,
as the moon wanes

I’ll think of you in half a light,
because you’re all the brightness I need

And when the candle burns out,
the old, wooden, rusty table
will bear witness to the time I thought of you
Used and beaten, like burned with anger

I’ll think of you with a tear in my eye
which will run down my face to meet my smile

And my brooding eyes will face the ceiling,
burning with questions, always burning

Afraid to hold you, afraid to let you go,
even though you’re only in my thoughts
An empty room

I’ll think of you as the dawn breaks,
you’ll rise with the sun

And in my thoughts, you’ll never run away
In my thoughts, there are no footsteps
walking away, for once, filling the empty space

In my thoughts, you decide to stay

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Me, Prose

Why write?

They asked me why do I write? I kept silent not because I didn’t have an answer but because I had too much to say. I write because I don’t know there is a life possible without it, I write because I don’t know how to live without writing. Because it seems like the most natural thing to do, like my hands were made to hold a pen and rest it on a page and scrawl words across it. Painting the page with ink and shapes. It brings out the best in me. And, it reminds me who I really am; just a girl who wants to write.

This great urge to write; it is both a curse and blessing at once. It’s like a prison with no lock. You’re free and bound at once. A paradox really.
I write because, for me, it’s not a part, but a way of life.
I write because I have to. Because the need is greater than almost everything else. And this need presides over my life.

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Poetry

Write you a letter..

I’ll write you a letter I’ll never send
You’ll never know what is was meant to be
A love letter or all my goodbyes

A crisp white page would have your name
written on top with my favorite ink
And I’ll gently caress it, afraid to read aloud
Tracing the words, imagining your face

I’ll write you this letter that you’ll never see
Just like you went your way,
hardly sparing a careless glance

And I’ll finally write it
and put in a locked closet
where it’ll fade into nothingness
ink fading with everything I felt for you

I’ll write you a letter but you’ll never know
because I’ll realize, all this while it was for me
And as the ink flowed,
I could see how much I needed this

The letter, I’ll keep it with me.

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Prose

Home

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Home is where someone protects your heart. Where you can wear your heart on the sleeve. Where you laugh louder. Where sadness doesn’t mean fear. Where you have the freedom to enjoy the pain, to cry. Where a hug is never far away. Where you learn what love means, better than any dictionary can teach you. Where you have your own space but no need of hiding.

Home is not a place.
It is a feeling.
Of being free.

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Note

100!

100 followers

I started this blog in Feb’ 2012 and less than a year later, here I am. With 100 followers! Thank you to everyone who read, shared, and appreciated my work. A bigger thanks to those who criticized and felt it wasn’t quite great, thank you, you made me better. I know I haven’t really posted as often as I should but I plan to remedy that in this new year of 2013. Wish you the best for 2013.

With love and gratitude
Mahima

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