Bottled Up Thoughts

  The girl who loves you admires roses a little more than your morning face. The girl who loves you, shoots questions bluntly, about triggers, trips and trees; to your friend lists and favourite sweets.  She adores the way you spark a smile, soon after you see her.   The girl who loves you, adorns a puppy face, -all cutesy, to get you sing a song; or skip a sour pill or two when sick. This girl sing songs, writes poetry, and asks too many questions bluntly, when she misses you the most.   Her love for you, is daunting, yet comforting; like the added layer of chocolate chips on Vanilla ice-cream; Like the first sip of coffee on a lazy morning. You for her, feel like home, all warm and cozy. You for her, is someone worthy of all good things of the universe.                                                                                              -J.

 Two quarters past 5, We sit there, watch the sky lay a saffron lilac spread, As if setting the sun asleep After a long day. Slowly as things unfold, Like some layers of insecurities And of love; You felt like the courtyard Of some old fort, With such high walls None could ever break into. /Time lapse/ A quarter past 8, We walk by the footpath as our shadows follow, Like it's just you and me  in this whole world. One of the stars falls by And we watch it still. We talk of the silliest, of the adorable springs, And of the lush green plants. Of failing a subject or two, And of lives and death. /Time lapse/ It's three quarters past 9, Another star goes down. This time I see it, I make a wish To always stick by you, thru your thick and thins. Stick by you like the Ursa major  and it's seven stars, that we spot each day. To stay constant in your sky Blooming white daisies  and greeny plants, All year long. -J.

My thoughts have yet again slipped away, sliding through the spaces of my fingers staining poetry across the sheets. Another night's gone, and oh, I wonder: Have the words fallen  or made 'em all fall? My poems make soft love, floating gently across the pauses of yours breaths, and the spaces in your curves.  On chilled nights, they're the winds binding you closer  to the shrugs of actuality. On the sober midnights, they're the drunk dials to past loves, taking guilt trips to confessions: buried deep under forbidden sins. On pleasant evenings, they're the last sip of tea that you wished lasted a little longer, They're satisfying urges and your day-dream fantasies. Like the sky shedding its shades, my poems shift shelters: seeking homes in people or seeking people in homes. Wanderers as they are, have yet again slipped away. -J.

Goodbyes are the saddest part  even of the greatest stories. Hard to voice and harder to leave. They say we never give enough time for a loved one's departure. So I turned you into poetry keeping you alive between the lines. Now I think of you in multiples of twelve. Twelve minutes past our first meet, we exchanged nervous smiles  across the beds. In the twenty-four hours that followed, We bonded over a million sicknesses  and sour soups. I faintly remember, It took you thirty-six failed trials  to rightly pronounce my two-syllable name. Forty-eight hilarious jokes later, we knew we were stronger  than our illnesses combined were. Lying in the critical care unit for sixty days straight, we now wake up to pills and hopelessness or mostly the latter. Admiring our seventy-second sunset you told how when young, sunsets fascinated you the most; I couldn't un-see that spark in your eyes. The eighty-fourth sunshine set me free from that room which forever smelled like anti

  A story it is, of love And only love. In the land of charm left unexplored by 'em all, lived two lovers; Sharing love somewhere between Chocolate chips And Nutella jars. The air smelled of bliss and beauty, As the moonlit skies watched them dance barefoot; to the songs- Of their beating hearts. Across the street Stood the love poems I have ever penned down: awwing at this tale, of love, And only love. For they, Were more than just two young girls silly in love, Rising high above the hushed whispers, And gender limits. Now Red, is the dearest tone no more. In seven striking shades of love, they soaked the otherwise greyish skies, Relishing pride like never before. Like how few of John Green's infinities, are bigger than the others; An endless story it remains forever: Of love, and only love.                                                                                                      

  Had I met you in the 70's, you'd be farther away  than  just a few clicks on my phone. Maybe we'd end up in the same library exchanging smiles across the table; Smuggling polaroids & flowers between the pages. For me, you would have been more than just my love at first sight; maybe you'd feel like home. We might perhaps bond over star gazing under the same sky - at different places. Maybe you'll manage to cycle a dozen kilometers just to see me - at the slightest chance you get. The next week as we meet at our usual spot, while  'Chura liya hai tumne jo dil ko nazar nahi churana sanam...' plays across the street over a radio, You'll tell me how beautiful my eyes were and I look aside blushing. Maybe time would feel the slowest, when waiting for your letter at the threshold, for straight four days. On a finer day, one of us might possibly be brave enough To admit their feelings And end this silent

I bleed in red, And so, the women you worship once did. Many thanks to the commercials fond of color swapping red for blue, or for water white, or just something new: Like they dislike the red I bleed. But for a thirteen-year-old he and she might just believe it all to be true. Ashamed of that which is real, she is made to hide it - Within dense layers of coal-black plastic. The world has left me drained, relating my impatience to hormonal shifts; Loud voices teaching me to keep it a secret, and that it was all dirty. Like a sunflower,  I will bloom on the gift of Motherhood; this red leaves behind. Like a sunflower,  I will bloom  amidst these closed minds all around; Affirming in bold: RED IS NOT THE COLOUR OF A SIN. I bleed in red, And so, the women you worship once did. Period.                                                                           - J.

Sorrow has never been a home's own. While the world's busy accusing it of its crimes: deaths and despair. On one dreary day, it would certainly walk into your open doors with no knocks. Then, Let it not slide in through the tiny cracks, then break your walls; slowly first and all at once. While you permit it to pass in freely give place to sit, with ease. Ask it who it is or how was its day, And how long it wants to stay. Like the gold polished medals  put in the display, duely embrace its presence. They're both pointers of your patience, unfolding tales of how you've survived strong till the very end of the race. Seal it not behind the lockers of your anxieties, Let it out in the open spaces, Let it free. Long walks, or bed time talks with your gooey guest, are okay. Never to be forgotten: Time lapses, and sooner than you think Sorrow would have left your home; Left you. A guest was all it has ever been, was never meant to stay. Over and over again, Sorrow shifts shelt

[10] Numbers now are more than just mathematics They're lives and deaths. They're survivors. [9] It's watching the sky steadily spill out  a salmon spread,  seems like setting the sun asleep after another awful day. [8] Now that we wake up to no alarms, but to nothingness. Monday morning blues on a break or are they prolonged until long. [7] How home isn't just bricks and walls, It's the people within.  Baking cakes and family dining, counting numbers, jointly. [6] For how the screens hold us  wholly exhausted and agitated. Many parted from loved ones, longing for their warmest hugs. [5] It's walks not across the streets. But cherishing old Polaroids Gloomy songs on loop, The scents of beloved still afresh. [3] SKIP is all we wish for now. Unaware if the nations Are holding diplomatic debates or plotting strategies to end it all. [2] It's //We are all in this, togethe

A t the age of 10, The earth for me, was all flat. Disputes often put off/In exchange  of a toffee or two. Watching clouds move  Hunting rainbow tails for gold  And witty stories of the hare, were daily doses of joy. By the age of 15, I knew it all, i thought. Broken vases/forgotten friendships Wishing over fallen eyelashes and shooting stars. Keeping diaries was an art. Love was the boy, With a cute smile and blushed cheeks. I'll be 19 in a month. Is the skin bruised or my heart I'm perplexed. I go on long walks, all alone. One down the memory lane. I knew, Growing up is all magical. It's growing out of cradles and uniforms, Of fancy habits/foolish fantasies, And growing out of toxic men. It's much like  the autumn that sees its leaves  wither and die. For the newborns to gleam all green Under the radiant sky.                                                                                       

You are a girl. Know how you will never be told  Of Cinderella who killed her step mother later when she was the Queen. Or how Ariel, the mermaid, almost killed the prince  soon after he married someone else. They're all afraid you'd know how a stranger  made love with the sleeping beauty,  all without her consent. You are a girl. You are never told the tales of the strong, of the women with imperfections. They won't tell how adorable your dreams And scars on your wrists are, And how they need not be hidden anymore. You are a girl. You are more than just geometry, or failed attempts at symmetry. You are more than your curved lines and edges and body angles. You are more than your body. You are to grow up to be the woman, With real flaws and issues of your own. Grow up, not to be a princess in wait of her prince charming, to get rescued. Grow up to be the Queen of your kingdom.                            

From hiding their pain behind those fierce faces, to secretly crying on the pillows 'Cause tears were meant for the weak, For the women. From standing taller all day long To silently wishing  for a shoulder to rest on after work, 'Cause they're asked to be  A man. Heavy hairy chests as they adore While they wither in the insides. Craving for the sweetest chocolates  To fearing of their worst insecurities, They do it all For none to be known. Hiding the cutest child within, As you hold on for a little longer they'll unveil it all. They say, Men will be men. Three letters. And so much to justify. Long as i think, To be a man is overrated For they could just walk along and not ahead of one.                                                                            - J