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Strange, how I never saw you

For who you were

And you never saw me

For who I was.

But still.

Your elegant handwriting

Is imprinted in my mind.

Like leaves between the pages

Of a book that was left behind.

But still.

The sounds the keypad made

When I dialled your number

Ring as fresh and familiar

As the rhythm of my heart.

But still.

Your jibes, your taunts,

Your needs, your wants

Get drowned in the memory

Of your tinkling laughter.

Really.

Strange, how time can make

Hell seem beautiful

As if it were viewed through

Rose-tinted glasses.

 

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Till Death Do Us Apart

Haunting echoes of laughter,

Your charming, infectious smile,

Spreading, while crinkling your eyes.

I clutch at those things of past,

Grasping at every last straw,

Oh, all those happy times!

Now only their ghosts remain

Phantom feeling of hands

Together, fingers interlaced.

As a breeze, both hot and cold

Blew against our faces that day,

I strummed my guitar while you

Sang like a nightingale.

As I stand by your grave today

Cold wind whipping my face,

Nothing ever seems the same,

Memories, just washed away.

Smiling, on the ground you lay,

As if dreaming, never to wake.

#PeaceDay

Today is International Peace Day, and the only question people are asking is whom I will make peace with. After five minutes of deliberation, I made up my mind. A person with whom I’m unforgiving. A person whom I bitterly ridicule. A person whom I look down upon. A person whom I blame whenever anything goes wrong. A person, who uncomplainingly fulfills my bidding, but remain unthanked for. I’ll make peace with that person.

I’m making peace with myself.

Letting It Go

I’m back there again. Lying on the pillow-cover, damp with my tears. Clutching the Nokia E63, hanging onto whatever is left of my life. The darkness is all-consuming.

Memories course through me. Or rather, they don’t. A person who cared for me was dead, and I don’t remember even a single thing about him. Not even his face. The guilt swallowed me up, choking me, strangling me.

I scream silently. Tears streak my face. Red and puffy, my eyes are trying to secrete as many water droplets as they can. Their salty taste do not quench my thirst.

Why am I like this? Why am I so thankless, heartless? Why do I go through life as if it’s another one of my books – quick and speedy? Why don’t I remember little acts of kindness done to me? Why am I friendless? Why don’t people like me? Why am I ugly?

As these meaningless stream of thoughts flow along with the tears, I scream silently again. The next scream is struck in my throat – neither in nor out. I sob quietly. Praying that they wash away my failures.

I hear the strains of Iridescent. My mobile. I almost forgot. I focus on the lyrics, trying to drown my noisy thoughts.

Do you feel cold and lost in desperation/ You build up hope, but failure’s all you’ve known/ Remember all the sadness and frustration/ Then let it go/ Let it go…

Suddenly, I felt light-hearted again. Why do I need to struggle with so much negativity when I could let it all go? Let it all wash over me?

Thank you, Mike Shinoda, for helping me remember that it’s best not to hang on to stuff that hurts. That leaving painful things behind helps us to move forward.

And that’s what I did.

I let it go.

Right Now

I blink out the tears,

As thoughts of the past haunt me,

They have scarred me,

For now and after.

I shake my head,

At the thoughts of the future,

Unwilling to probe,

Into what lies beyond.

The only thing,

I can do at present,

Is to live the moment,

Right now.

And Mara Eastern’s Poetry 101 Rehab is one of the rightest thing that has happened to me now.

Deserted Landscape

Desert

Desert

I face the long, undulating stretch of land,

The hot sun roasting my skin.

My parched throat yearns for water,

My feet wishes for some rest.

I remember the trees, flowers, and leaves back home,

As their fragrance wafted across my face.

The haunting memory of springtime haunt me,

As the lone and level sands stretch far away.

The last line of this poem is from Ozymandias by P.B. Shelly. This poem is for Writing 201: Poetry.