Whispers From A Grave

You may call me heartless.

but you carry not the same pain

inside your chest as mine

I wish I could read you my poetry

and you could comprehend it and whine

Understand the depth

of each verse, each syllable,

and relate to

the anguish

in my veins

this bleeding heart would find a companion to

share the pain.

I wish you could dive deep

into my heart,

and see

the broken pieces

buried deep inside,

and I could dive into yours,

to fix the fragments you have tended to hide.

I ask myself

am I transparent enough

for them

to peek

into the hell

burning

inside me?

With the flames of diffidence

and insecurities

burning the insides of me.

Is the cosmos inside me, where self hatred dwells

visible

in plain sight?

If it iS, then I must find it a veil,

for its exposure enhances my insignificance.

But,

why do I expect them

to accept me

when I keep

running away

from my own self?

Why do I expect them

to love me when I engulf my own self

into a whirlpool

of self-hatred?

Why do I expect them to

consider me worthy

when I myself don’t know my own worth?

Perhaps worthless I am,

but why do I expect them to

look for me, when from my own self I yearn to

disappear.

And why do I expect them

to let me live

in harmony when I myself long

for death

in serenity?

I do wonder,

if this twinge of hatred

for my existence

exists within them, too!

presume,

I give my all

just to be invisible,

and as I let my emotions flow with ink,

I bottle up the tears

on the brink of shedding,

for I believe

I become

more transparent

with every tear I shed.

Perhaps, this transparency will pave a way

to a higher mutual hatred.

If I am to choose

between

the starry skies

or your eyes,

no doubt

I would

love to

see a sky

abound

with stars

of love and faith

And if I am to choose

between

the virtues of heaven

or a slight glimpse

of you

no doubt

would

bury

my eyes

in the heavenly sight

for seconds

And if

I am

to choose

between

A library of a thousand

books

or a momentary glance at your visage,

no doubt

I would

spend

the moment

deciphering

scrambled

words

on your skin.

And if

I am

to choose

between

a life

without you,

or a death

by your hands,

I would

love

to get a knife plunged in my chest by life itself.

Somedays, I wish

My sluggish friend death

Could come and meet me,

Or I could find

An easy ride to its house.

Or I could simply just say its name

And it could

Come and clutch me

In its arms,

Taking me to a place I seek.

A place where my breath

Slowly loses its rhythm,

A place where my skin

Becomes gradually cold

And I turn

Numb.

A place where my lungs

Cease gasping for air anymore.

And my eyes bid a fading farewell to light.

Perhaps today

Is the day?

I know not.

When she was young,

Her mother stayed by her side until she slept.

For she was afraid of

The monsters

Underneath her bed,

Scared of the night,

She wanted the day to last long.

For in the gloom,

She had to pretend

To be strong

But soon she wasn’t

Afraid

Of darkness,

Nights became her companion

The toxicity of the world

Transformed her heart

Into a canyon

Merry she looked in the daytime,

The nights saw her whine.

And the monsters she was once afraid of,

Became

Her partners

In crime.

And now she knew

And felt real dread

Of the Monsters

Of the World

Not the ones that she once thought

Were underneath her bed.

Full of thoughts

Abounding with fret.

My head is a prison

I wish I could escape from it.

No, I don’t have a nemesis out there,

But it’s up here with me.

A residence of angels and devils,

And for help, I make a plea.

It’s a cluster of chaos,

Where heaven and hell lie,

A whirlpool of emotions,

The joy within slowly dies.

All the pain and anguish,

I let flow onto the pages

All the bruises and scars

I have been carrying since ages.

My wounds are deep

My heart is a void

A pain deep within

I tend to avoid.

My soul screams,

As does the silence

It bears the agony

Like a lone island.

All the happiness,

And healing I desire

We say we are happy

No, my dears… we are all liars.

Mother,

Tear my flesh

And bury my bones

In your skin.

Take me back into your womb,

To the realm ot my existence

It is high time that I merged into you,

Perhaps we’ll be more alike then.

This mayhem inside me

And the one I create

Around me,

Would succumb ultimately then.

Father,

Am I even worth your sweat?

Or am I a pure disgrace?

For what I have perceived.

I am all vain

Did I ever make you proud?

No, I couldn’t

Come, stab me

To death

If you will,

Slit not my throat with your words,

For the scar that you paint with it,

Reminds me of my futility.

I believed

If not the world,

At least you would have faith

In this morbid soul

But, I have been delusional all this while.

The gardeners

Of this plant

Stopped

Watering

It a long time ago.

You have already killed my lively spirit,

Now come,

Come and burn away

All the flesh that

Remains.

My grave is a

Cradle of the poet dwelling inside me,

Every drop of poison

I consume

Is ink to her,

The blades

I cut myself with

Is her pen.

Born of the depths of despair,

She gives life

To my dead notions.

Every death

Of mine

Is a flicker of a

New existence

For her.

1 burn silently

In the fire

Of an excruciating agony,

And she engraves

My secrets

With the ink

Of my own poison.

And throws

The paper

In the silent fire

Where I burn.

I see

myself

burning

with my thoughts

that succumb to the fire,

raging with poems,

I’ll never

read you,

with lines

I’d never

write again,

they all

die with her.

Inside a shattered heart

dwell the demons of

grief and agony,

my heart pierces itself

apart,

to banish

those demons

and the smell

of warm blood

turns it cold.

The raging flow

of the

roaring red river carries away

with it all

the anguish and rage.

Piece by piece

the desolate, dead heart

stiches itself together.

This time, it dares not to love again,

rather it craves more to be loved,

it craves to be held

tenderly,

in delicate hands

but fears

the stiches could tear apart again.

And if some day,

the sun stands up on the pedestal of pride,

boasting of its scintillating light, brightening up the

earth,

I would still tell him about your smile.

And of envy,

he would hide somewhere behind the clouds,

to see if in his absence the entire world trembles

beneath darkness’s shroud.

But, oh, you poor sun,

you would die of envy each time,

to see how my world lights up

with his bewitching smile,

sans compare.

Father,

What do you do of a wretched child

Who brings you nothing but misery,

Do you throw him away into the woods.

Or do you let the poison

Slipping out of your tongue do its own magic?

For the seed of poison

Grows not

Into a rose,

But a deadly nightshade,

Whose leaves tangle around my morbid nerves

Slitting them in succession

But you worry not,

For I will let not blood flow out

Into the world,

Rather,

I will paint the walls of my room red with it

And decorate it

With a hanging antique,

A living corpse

Mother,

L wish you could see

The world through my eyes,

And live it in my skin.,

Perhaps then you would choose

Honey over poison

To embellish your words with.

If I cannot be a good human

let alone a good child,

○ mother, swallow me

into to your womb

and birth me again.

Perhaps, this time I will not return

as a wretched child.

I was in a different world last night,

darkness consuming the woods

and the fog blurring my sight.

From the woods emerged a voice

calling out my name.

And I was certain of its existence, I know from

whom it came

The voice penetrated my soul,

and for a moment, it made me feel

light and complete

And then I was sure,

the voice I was completely swallowed by,

was yours

I went searching of you,

unfortunately bereft of any clues.

And then my eyes

flickered with a sudden glow of light.

And it wasn’t sun, but your eyes so bright,

which took away all clouds of darkness

descending upon me.

But then, I realized it was all a dream

So yes, you were in my dreams last night,

and intervened in a vicious fight.

A battle between my demons and I,

was saved from myself,

I am obliged to thee.

The broken glass

of my window,

is a boat

which sails across

the sea of memories

it takes me back

to the days when I played

cricket with my father

in the garden, and we broke

a window pane.

The sudden reminiscence

breeds

nostalgia and laughter in us.

The broken pieces of my mirror,

show different pieces of me,

each exhibits

a part of me

which got lost

somewhere on the runway of life

and I realize,

am the protagonist

to a thousand tales…,

tales of despair,

tales of bravery,

tales of love,

tales of laughter,

and tales of what not.

The cracks

On the walls and ceilings

Of my ancestral home,

Whisper lores into my ear,

They tell me, how resolute they have been.

Surviving the harsh rains

How valiantly

They have been sheltering

The gentle snow,

And how patiently

They have been enduring

The scorching heat.

They tell me tales of the laughter and giggles

Of children running around the house,

Subdued plaintive crying of folks bidding farewell

To their loved ones,

They tell tales of the lives and deaths of generations seen.

The broken watch of mine.

Gifted by my aunt,

Now lies somewhere

In my cupboard,

Portraying the reality of life..,

No matter how broken anything is,

Time never waits

It carries forward leaving behind the gift of beauty.

Broken things are the most beautiful,

For they encapsulate

Countless untold, unheard stories.

I had hidden

behind

a veil of coldness,

and locked

the doors

of my compassion.

I had built

walls that were unsurmountable

Love?

I stopped looking for it,

I had eradicated the word from the kingdom of my life.

Yet, one day, love showed up

on the threshold

of my barren heart land.

It knocked,

once,

twice

thrice.

I kept the doors closed,

until I realized,

perhaps

this time.

it wasn’t

agony disguised

I unlatched the door amidst the four walls of my house,

inside which had kept myself captive.

On the brink stands your home,

said my conscience to me.

The spring of hope.

blossomed back in this land,

of gloomy winters

the flowers bloomed

the birds sang again,

the sun felt warm, not harsh,

the air kissed my dead cheeks,

the butterflies played

with strands of my hair.

From my grave, I woke

from a nightmare

that had lasted quite long.

I like it

When it rains

But I love

The deafening sounds

Of the rain.

Gentle raindrops,

Hitting hard the ground

As if they are resentful,

Like my mind resents me.

But

For some reason,

The roaring downpour

Subdues

The loud voices

Of my mind,

And breeds a momentary peace.

And when I lay on my death bed,

And death I shall await

As I count my last heartbeats,

Would you come to me, mate?

We’d reminisce about our days

And the memories we made.

Peaks and valleys of life,

What a beautiful trade

And I would ask for your forgiveness,

From a heart left with but a few heartbeats

For if I had ever hurt you in past.

In afterlife, I shall make amends if we ever meet

In the last moments of life,

Before I join the stars above

Tell me I mattered

Tell me I was loved

Tell me I made you laugh,

Tell me I made your day, sometimes

Tell me you were happy in my company

Tell me I was your best partner in crime

For this is all I shall take with me,

And this is all I shall leave behind

The good deeds and memories

And no regrets left in the mind.

And when my eyes close

Never to open again,

And I am devoid of life

Do not grieve, my friend.

Our heart forbids acceptance of death

But death is the truth and intense the pain,

But by grieving for the dead,

Let not your life go in vain.

I wish you were

my sleep paralysis demon

visiting me in the dead of night, each day

filling my heart

with a sigh of relief

at your divine sight

I believe

your presence

won’t scare

me to death

unlike

the daily visits

of the creeping demon

underneath my bed.

And then, I won t be afraid to sleep,

and in my sleep, I will not weep.

Perhaps the sudden constriction of breath will

make me

more alive

than I ever was,

and I won’t gasp for air anymore

My frozen body is forbidden movement

and when I scream

I can’t be heard

the restraint on my body

feels like a caged bird now emancipated.

the shadows twirling feel more like fairies

dancing in the dark,

And I don’t cry for help, 1 sing like a lark.

The ache in my nerves

And heaviness

On my skin,

Feels more like the gentle tenderness of your holy touch

And the warmth of your grin.

For once, I beg not for this nightmare to end,

And this time I wish not to wake uP again.

We are as much dead

As the ones buried and earthed, yet,

The only difference is,

The echos of their souls will live,

While ours will have

Died even before they were buried.

We are akin to those entombed in the soil,

We have been screaming to be let free of this

Confining coffin.

And the only difference is,

They are alone,

And we are lonely.

How many times

Have I found shelter

In a pen

Than

In people.

Everywhere I turned for solace,

I was disowned

By their words.

The words

They never gave life to,

But echoed only through their eyes.

People,

They are beautiful,

Still, at times

They make me sick to the core.

I exhibit my agony,

ìn form of my art.

and you call it beautiful,

this raging torment of

my aching heart.

.