Earphones

Here has come one of the rarest moments,

where listening to my music

doesn’t wrap me in my bubble of bliss.

 

Everything is different.

The beats from my earphones doesn’t swallow me whole.

The soothing melody no longer swings on the tip of my tongue.

 

I am lost, my dreams long lost on a cliff.

I am shouting, lungs out,

crying a river that shall take me away.

 

World Poetry Day Special~

In celebration of World Poetry Day and as a lover of poetry, I created a simple presentation for school, in hopes of encouraging students to write and perform poetry too. I would like to remove the stereotype that people have about poetry, that it is boring and hard and share with them the wonders of poetry.

I hope that after the presentation, students shall have a more positive opinion of poetry and be able to see how simple and beautiful it is.

Here is the power point presentation:

World Poetry Day

Of course, here is an original poem to celebrate the day:

Let’s Talk

Let’s talk about things we don’t usually talk about.

Let’s talk about the pain people hide beneath the cuts.  

Let’s talk about the secrets students bury because they are afraid to talk.

Let’s talk about the dust that old hunchback cleaners with warm smiles sweep out of classrooms, creating sandstorms.

Let’s talk about the whispers flown miles away from circles of teenagers.

Let’s talk about the books we are dying to read but won’t discuss.

Let’s talk about the corrupt we motivate.

Let’s talk about the things we hate, that boil our blood underneath the skins we dread.

Let’s talk about the sky. 

Let’s talk about death and how the unknown prevents us from sleeping.

Let’s talk about the spirits within us that are begging, begging to take over.

Let’s talk about the words we said, didn’t mean to say, wanted to say, couldn’t say, wished to say, lived to say, and died trying to say.

Let’s talk about the future we hope to see in a crystal ball.

Let’s talk about those dodging bullets and bracing violent waves.

Let’s talk about the dreams that have shattered and have yet to be reborn.

Let’s talk about those without a place to call home.

Let’s talk about love and how we all secretly wish for it.

Let’s talk about how selfish and greedy we all are.

Let’s talk about how cruel we’ve made the world and how we are going to make all of it stop.

A Poem Written To The Ticking Of The Clock

I am a dark cloud disguised as sunshine.
I am an opaque lie.
Yet, light rays illuminate through me.

I am constantly missing; constantly overwhelmed by a sense of missing.
Yet always present.
I am no gift. If anything I am a curse.

I shall dress in white satin and dance to the melody of the ticking clock.
I shall dance till the hot wooden floor feels like block ice.
I shall burn the house down with my footsteps; burn it slowly with my gentle angry footsteps.

I will run.
I will run so far, land shall crack to sand and sand shall become sea.
I will shed tears, tastier than the banks we call water bodies and more deadly than the waves that swallow.

I won’t lay on marbles and think of soft cushions.
I won’t skip on stormy beaches and believe in calm seas.
I won’t seek and dream of being hidden.
I won’t dive and believe I shall be saved.

Dreamers often lie but the ink on this paper is dry and the words tattooed on it shall seal the truth.

01/11/16

STORYLAND

The very reason I open a book,
Books which are so much like life
With a beginning and an end,
With many adventures in between
Is simply for the joy of experiencing,
Experiencing
More than I ever could in this lifetime.

To know what it feels like to travel along
Clouds from Asia to Africa,
From London to Mumbai,
To be the Queen of a country,
The ruler of a land,
The boy stuck in a war between senseless politicians.

To know what it feels like to be a singer, a writer, an actress
All at the same time.
To float in space among stars,
To have dreams bigger than oneself,
To be a refugee who’s tired of dodging bullets and thus
Decides to brave the sea
Unfortunately, with waves too high to dodge.

To know what it feels like to be the hero of the day,
The successful detective,
To know what it feels like to be the man who changed the World.

 

🙂 HAPPY WORLD BOOK DAY 

A Wronged Soul

A bruise is how the body remembers it has been wronged.

The hands that spread across
my neck and the handprints
that have stained me will soon
start to define me.

I will continuously wipe
sorrow off my face only
for my hands to be smeared
with blood.

I will roll my eyes
back once my head hits
the bed due to the
recollection that
lives in my head.

My stomach will start to disappear
and my body will
cave in
forming a bowl that would
collect the water, I refused
to drink.

However, there is nothing that
leaves you as thirsty as hate.
The more I drink, the
more I long for it.
The more I scream for it.

Darkness has overcome me.
It has become my second skin.
I claw at it furiously
only to have scars that could
be mistaken for tattoos.

It has come to the point that
the pain that spreads across my
soul has started to spread
across the body that holds it.

There is nothing more frightening
than a soul remembering
that it has been wronged.

An Endless Love For The Sky

I look up at you, while you look down at me.
We’re so far, yet so near.
We stretch across so many countries,
You could say our love is worldwide.

The only problem is that,
We can’t meet in between.
I have too many buildings and roots to hold
While you have clouds and stars which you can’t leave.

Every two days, you send evidence of your misery for
Not being down with me.
Sometimes, when you hurt too much, areas get flooded.
Deep down, I know they are attempts to wash away
The duties I have,
Attempts which deep down you know never will.

Every day when you wake up, you have that golden glow
In your eyes- it’s love at first sight.
For me, it’s love at first light.

When you’re tired and decide to close your eyes,
I still stare at you.
I’m not lying when I say you look wonderful in your
Sleep, almost picture perfect like the night sky you are.

Baby, I hope this love of ours never dies.
It’s known to be sacrificial, yet beneficial.
After all, we hold the World as one.
Now, no matter what,
I wish you always keep that twinkle in your eyes.

It’s what keeps me going.

261115

I hope this isn’t just another story about girl meet boy.
I hope when years have passed and we meet again,
we can honestly tell each other the secrets we held.
That we can confess the quick glances were mutual.

I speak the truth when I say:
I’ve never been more mesmerised by anyone before.
When I see you, time seems to stop.
My heart gets on a roller-coaster ride and
it’s only when you look away and all the blood that rushed to
my head starts to flow back, that
I realise that I’ve missed my chance,
once again.

It wasn’t the looks nor the style.
Those came later, I have to admit.

It was the way you looked at me that night, the way you looked into my eyes, and just about every other time after that.
I felt empowered yet vulnerable at the same time, it was terrifying.
Still is.
You sparked a curiosity in me like never before and I haven’t
been able to light it out since.

Maybe it’s for selfish reasons that my heart beats this tune,
maybe it isn’t.
What I do know is that I want yours to follow the same tune
but no pressure,
I haven’t mustered up the guts for that yet.

I hope this isn’t just another story about boy meet girl.
I hope when years have passed, you remember me and smile to yourself.
You smile about how the mercurial character of a girl long ago,
confused you yet added a page to your book,
of one day, our story.

At The Crossroads

‘Where are you going to go?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘How long are you going to take?’

‘I don’t know.’

The worry in Mother’s eyes was beginning to affect me. It was evident she did not appreciate my lack of answers but I had no answer that would ease her worry.

‘What do you know then?’

‘I know that I am going for a drive and that I shall come back when I am ready to.’

‘Please stay safe and keep in touch every hour.’

I nodded as a reply and walked out the front door. Mother was not one bit willing to let me go but she was aware that I needed a breath from everything.

I walked to the garage, took 3 bottles of fuel, a blanket, the stack of cash I had saved, some clean clothes and began my trip to nowhere. The large green fields slowly turned to large trees and the urban houses turned to large high rises. The familiar strawberry scent in the air was long gone and replaced with a strawberry ash mixed scent. The light blue sky was turning into a gloomy grey one, a great representation of my feelings.

I was not surprised that i had unknowingly driven myself to the city. All my life, I knew that I was meant for it. At night, I would stare at the ceiling pretending that it was the city and would hear it softly but surely calling out to me. Sometimes, I would stare really hard, reality easily faded away.

The only reason why I, such an independent, strong-headed, smart lady stayed in a place that did not go in sync with the rhythm of my heartbeat was because he had stolen my heart. He also happened to be the reason I was moving with no destination on a fast lane. Tom and I knew each other ever since we were in diapers. Our Mothers were best friends and nothing less was expected of us. We did everything together and shared everything. The flowers of our friendship soon blossomed to romance and we soon became the envy of all our friends. This later extended to the whole school. We were prom queen and king, we were voted best couple for all our years in high school and we were voted most expected to get married. I did not care for the fame, I was simply happy being with Tom.

After we graduated, he took me on a surprise road trip to the city. His destination was a mesmerising water-body which went two ways. He had stumbled upon it and knew that I would love such a unique place nicknamed the crossroads, and it became a symbol of our love.

A few days ago, the promise was broken, shattered into unrecognisable pieces when I found Tom cheating. It is funny how one can know someone their whole life yet not know them at all. When I found out, I did not shed a single tear, not even a single drop. I had simply returned the ring and left.

Now, I find myself back at the crossroads.

I would be lying if I said I was not hurt but I would also be lying if I said I was surprised. Life is everything but a fairytale and when everything was going so well, I knew somewhere along the line, there would be a problem. It just happened to be a much bigger problem than I ever imagined.

Gazing at the crossroads, I wished for a reset button but none came. My mid-length waves had begun dancing to the melody of the wind before I realised how cold it was. I watched the waves in the water-body hit against each other, creating a beautiful dance. The stars were out when I left the crossroads but immediately when I got into my car and began my drive, I knew it would be my last time here.

My life was going to change and this time I shall be the pilot.

Victoria in Gold

For years, the majestic beauteous painting of Aunt Victoria had hung on our cream walls. It had a large iridescent frame and the painting was made of gold. It was a portrait of Aunt Victoria dressed in an iwis elegant dress. She had no expression but it could easily be mistaken for sadness. Still, she looked very beautiful, a beauty I have longed for, for ages. I had asked the story of how the painting came about multiple times but the topic would always be changed. That was until my dearest Grandmother held me by arms, dragged me to her favourite Victorian styled room, sat me down and began to tell me the story of Victoria in Gold.

In the old days, Aunt Victoria was the finest lady in town. She had long wavy brown hair, a slender figure, pearly white teeth, and an incredulous smile and was beyond voguish. Every woman wanted to be her and every gentleman wanted to marry her. She had many suitor especially young gentlemen from prestigious families but she never fancied them. She treated them like stone on the pavement. They all failed to get her attention except dear Victor.

Victor was an adonis but average nevertheless. His father was a well-known doctor and his mother a caregiver. They led a humble life. He had manners far beyond any royal and a gorgeous smile. He made Victoria feel happy and comfortable in her own skin, something she did not feel often. However, they both knew that they were living a fantasy. They were from far too different classes after all he was a painter with a gardening job at Victoria’s house on the side. They were positive that if their love were to live, they had a tremendous uphill battle to face.

Victor left wonderful paintings week after week addressed to Victoria. They always had a hidden meaning and Victoria could decipher them with just one look. At times, she would laugh upon seeing them and other times she would cry and lock herself up for days at end. Victoria was Victor’s poetry and his pen was his paint brush. Victoria’s parents questioned her about the man sending paintings but she feigned ignorance and they soon became accustomed to the delivery of paintings.

Months passed and Victoria’s room was filled with numerous picturesque paintings. Yet, at the same time, Victoria’s father’s patience was depleting. His greatest wish was to see his only daughter joyfully married. He pleaded with Victoria to find a man she would be blissfully married to but she could not tell him about Victor thus she kept refusing. She did not want him to be rejected before she woke up from the fairy tale love of hers.

For Victoria’s father, days passed like years and he was very aware that his early years were long behind him. He could not take it anymore and thus he got Victoria engaged to one of the finest gentlemen in town. When she heard the news, Victoria uttered “I am not a property in which you may trade for your wish to be fulfilled,” in a calm yet vile
tone.

“This is for your own happiness, you shall be thankful in the future,” replied Victoria’s father in a heartbroken manner.

Just like that, the topic was concluded. Victoria had too much respect to overturn her father’s command or even protest more than she had done which left her torn, as she felt she was betraying her love for Victor.

News spread and Victor heard about the betrayal but he did not say nor do anything until the night before Victoria’s engagement. Days before so, Victoria felt penitent. She believed that Victoria’s silence was punishment for her lack of courage. On the night before her engagement, Victoria received a huge painting from Victor. She took it and flew up the stairs into her quarters with a big smile despite the size of the painting.

That was the last time Victoria was seen smiling. Victoria never woke up the next morning. On her dressing table was a letter worded with ‘I am sorry but I hope you can hang the painting up’. The reason for her death nor how she died was never known, just like the location of Victor. That was the beginning to Aunt Victoria’s gaze upon us from our cream walls.

Grandmother believes that she died because she was love sick.

I, on the other hand, believe that there was something in the painting that only Aunt Victoria could understand.

04/12/15