Bottled Up Thoughts

  We are all peaceful cowards you, me, et al.; making homes out of words, living life in false fantasies and hypothetical affairs. We build palaces in the name of love, just to wander homelessly feeding apologies to our underloved hearts. We are all peaceful cowards you, me, et al.; masking faces behind forced filters, dumping feelings behind backspaces and archived drafts. We love people more than our own bodies, the mirrors throwback a reflection we don't recognize anymore. We are all peaceful cowards you, me, et al.; wearing no smiles of our own, hiding scars behind long sleeves and sunflowers. We fear unrolling our hearts into the open just to watch them shatter, harder each time. We are all peaceful cowards you, me, et al.; walking the roads never taken, piling petty rocks to build mountains of strength. We wait for the right time to arrive, shelving volumes of battlegrounds for another day. -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 s...

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.                                           ...

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...

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.                                                              ...