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?
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.
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.
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 