trust me, this is the only time I used my title, so please just call me V.
would you
…
allow me to write –
devour the blank pages?
Inscribe the thunder of emotions
translated into prose & verses.
would you
…
allow me to write –
freely, wholeheartedly?
allow me to write –
fearlessly, consistenly?
please do
…
allow me to write –
allow me to breathe.
allow me to write –
the space to be nothing but me.
a flicker of fire
subdued by looming darkness;
faintly crackling
against the raging voices;
the dimmest light
in the sprawling tunnel;
alas my ember of being
slowly giving in;
the passion that burns,
how do I ignite and flame?
It was a humid afternoon, sweltering by anyone’s standards. The room was filled with people grouped in their usual places, wrapped in the world of their collective making. The whole space was filled with noise, of thoughts rummaging through everyone’s head spoken clearly aloud.
She was looking straight into his expressive eyes – a look he answered fiercely back as their whole world watched on. Locked in the moment, in their complete perfect silence, everything else was background noise. In the space between, in the silence undisturbed, in the complete absence of words – they felt, they knew. It was theirs for the taking.
Trying to hold his strong gaze, a faint smile appeared on her lips. As quick as a blink, they were snapped back to reality – in acceptance, in surrender.
They called it quarter life crisis,
an existential dilemma one cannot escape.
A phase one simply goes through,
forget even as the worlds keeps on spinning.
A period of confusion and epiphany,
a small hurdle in the long run of fate.
Is this the face of failure or shot in success –
oh such feeling of youth, full of unrest.
In celebration of Bad Poetry Day (18th August), I made a little poem that talks about the ‘bad’ phase one goes through at 25.
the window to her soul –
a peek in the blazing fire
ignites a warmth within,
shows wonder, laughter, sorrow,
brings forth your shivers.
a pale cover of sensation,
the right touch turns vermilion.
lacquer in ruby woo, scarlet,
a real damsel’s weapon.
the dark, alluring simper,
her greatest poison.
Inspired by my recent MAC haul including the iconic Ruby Woo matte lipstick. Every time I wear the Ruby Woo, I feel like a totally different woman with oozing confidence. Was actually writing a blog post about the recent purchase but it seems that I’m having problems uploading pictures due to the fluctuating internet connection. Let me know your thoughts! 🙂
A faint light is trying to seep in through the curtains draped with flower patterns of blue and green. The air felt damp – it has been drizzling all night again. Her room sets a scene of a melancholic view – the way the light touches the deep blue wall, the feeling of sadness eminent in the space. Staring at the ceiling, she took a deep breath, what came out was a heavy sigh. Then another.
“Life”, she grumbled to herself. It’s a start of a new day and she knows better than to fill it with worries and the problems of yesterday. She knows better, yes. But the bed is holding on to her, cradling her in the stream of her emotions.
She took another deep breath. 1…2… inhale. 1…2… She let it all out. A series of more focused breathing that made her seem like trapped in a trance if anyone sees her. In her mind, that’s all there is to it – the flow of the air through her nose, her core, her peace. A much needed serenity. Her escape from the harsh toll of reality.
Hurried knocks on the door broke her meditation. It brought her back to the world in a snap. Like a switch that clicked, she gathered up all the courage to face the day that she could muster, all while quickly fixing her hair in a tight bun. Two more banging on the door as she grab hold of the handle.
She knows exactly who is waiting impatiently on the other side of the door – the reason for her fight, the purpose of her being. She looked down and saw the dark brown eyes that resembles hers, the soft warm cheek against the pale weather, the grin that keeps her world spinning. “Mom, I want pancakes”, the little boy demanded.
Tried to write a bit of a short fictional piece inspired by the The Mindful Modus’ Beginners Guide to Mindfulness, and a short chat with my mom after not being able to talk to her for a few weeks.
Skulls and roses,
the heart and the mind,
Thoughts and emotions,
butterflies and bones;
each are alike,
yet each seems to oppose.
*
Through rise and fall,
of celestial orbs;
Through the constant tick and tock
of mechanical clocks;
Through doubts and indecision,
suddenly,
a magical moment found.
*
Years passed,
caged in an enchanted sleep;
Yet in this magical night,
and the splendor of words,
ignites the sleeping beast
The notebook in the photo was what I once called as my perfect notebook the moment I laid my eyes on it. I can’t seem to find the courage to start writing on it since it was given to me as a gift. I hold it with so much reverie that I think that my thoughts and my emotions aren’t worthy enough for the blank pages it beholds. In fact, I even searched and bought for a new one. Yet, just only last night, this magical moment happened, and I was finally able to gather up the confidence that I need to start devouring the pages and fill it with my own wonder.
I stare at the keys, taunting me
illuminating blue light, dark thoughts
it’s crazy how these feelings do.
Raw, unfiltered, unmasked
letting it all go in heavy, little presses.
Where to start, how to continue?
Ten thousand more hours I need,
to make little pieces that count.
Trying times, jaded mind,
the white canvas, blank lines
my bunker underneath this mess.
A scream of plea, a cry for help,
created a world to keep me safe.
She stared at the mirror, familiarizing her every feature. Trying to hold on to her own identity, the one unstained, untouched by him.
Her eyes – dark as her soul, outlined by a regal thin wall of blue as he said. Her nose – how often does he pinch it when in a playful mood. Her lips – how his brushed it softly, passionately, intensely. Her hair – he has always loved the wild, long curves of her hair. Has always admired how it falls gracefully right down her shoulders and chest.
She stared at the mirror, she can only see traces of him. Traces he left behind when he shut the door. Traces of him all over her body. How badly does she want to take all of him out of her; out of her body, out of her mind, out of her life.
She stared at the mirror.
In her eyes, she see fire. A fire set on her soul. A fire that burns brightly, so bright he could not even touch the surface. A fire so pure, no remnants of him can be found.
She stared at the mirror. Closed her eyes, took hold of her hair. Snip. Snip. Snip. The wild long curves falling recklessly on the ground. Snip. Snip. Snip.
She stared at the mirror. She saw herself.
one last time, I told myself
look you in the eyes,
feel the tenderness of your lips.
one last bottle, as i empty another
enough tears and such sad music,
shut these mem’ries that linger.
one last drag, huffed and puffed.
the warm comfort of your touch,
now part of my haunting past.
must’ve been kismet, or call it fate
maybe just my own sinful measure.
count the chug, the drag, all the tears i’ve shed
in your arms, my walls could never deliver.
again, staring at those deep dark eyes,
forever – my undoing, i’ll surrender.
engr. v writes 