chaiNboli

 My fingers blue with ink heart thumping in their ends  a current of pain rising inside,  swallowing small paper boats of hope. "Write a good poem,  a story with a happy ending " Invoke the muses of Mount Helicon, offer me slender opium pipes, feed me daffodils and nectar, sing like a Skylark in Venice. perhaps then I could grant you the wish. Until then listen to this, if you care or  step back from the Satan's ring I draw.  "Once upon a time" that is how every story start,  happy ones and also the sad, doomed ones. Once upon a time  I smiled ,one ,now , in the grey snow of memory. And seven heart beats later,  I heard you  calling my name.  My name in your tongue: soft like an insect's wing. Ignorance was better  but I was curious like a girl doing secret science experiments. (Was it innocence or stupidity?) I walked merrily down the path  The Persephone,  an easy target,  seduced by your pomegranate smile. A d...

 //They buried you but forgot me// Dead marigolds in the waterglass, a forgotten beauty. Uunshed tears and memories  merge together , forms a mire - alluring yet deadly.  I was pulled into pieces_ between love and obedience, between earnesty and respect. A complete fool, a useless rag.. The wolves will follow me until the end of the desert, howling the magnificent notes of all the sins I committed. Thirsty ghosts speaking of  good old days,  seducing the depressed blue vein of my  right hand.  I see blind gods, their eyes peering through me, what will they find inside: hidden daggers, mutilated words and beautiful lies? They call me a hectic,  one bitten by a bat. How cruel to misinterpret your mulberry kisses into a Draculian cut, a satanic rite? You are a traitor who left me silently,  mercilessly,  turning my world  silent and barren. What  remains is a treasure box  without treasure, total catastrophe, cultivated blank...

 // I don't know what future beholds: it's terrifying, a bewildered surprise// I write poems on my skin in a foreign language of slits, bruises and cuts. They are the usual stories- the ones you will find in almost every book- love, loss ,grief. I hide my sins under  complex metaphors and  jokes about killing myself. Red daisies bloom in me, rooted in the cracks of my body : a garden out of the devil's dizzy spell... I roam like a sleepwalker, offering my broken hand for a drowning puppy. I dance to the ballad of tears,  cheerful as an  abandoned flower in graveyard. Then three seconds away from fainting , my blotchy paintings disappear.. My melancholy turns alarming,  I  stand two hundred feets away from black angel. I hate to hang up, to drown, to cut my wrist again  into two uneven parts, to jump and break my neck, and to swallow a hundred pills at once. I can't take a chance  once more,  it's a curse: to get saved by an accident.. A ...

 //A mind of my own is a luxury// You are more like a poetry than a mortal human. Your tongue tosses a syllable,  putting a knife in my throat. I choke in pain, severe than period cramps. Fear grips me, my bones cold as stone. Your name mount into the tip of my tongue, a sigmoid smile in  your beautiful face. I writhe in your hands, a disposable plastic cup. "You love me right" not a question, but a statement. I fold my words, neat as my red saree and keep it in the beating almariah where thousand secret moths live. I hold back my feelings, remidiating myself that  I am supposed to smile. I hide the imprints of sad metaphors and look  to find a familiar colour  of pupils_ lovely gray, enough to make me  fall into love loop , again. You firmly glue yourself to me, a parasite, a worm crawling  through my brain. It hurts and hurts  and hurts. But it won't _ once. Until then I should stand, smiling like a clown.. "I love you" you whisper in my ea...

 // Sins don't get punished  in the very moment of their commitment// And there are monsters  I keep under my pillow, feeding my silent tears and bad metaphors. ln the middle of night they French kiss me, tongues long enough to reach near the  fourth chamber of my heart. There, in the poetic asylum is a girl, flat chested,  who spells "pain", every minute, letter by letter,  "P -A -I- N" P as in peachy kisses, A as in another fancy, I am in itchy agony  N as in never ever.  She walks through my yellow meadows,   and vermilion skies making love to the  blues: slowly and passionately. I scribble on between  her undeciphered moans, her blood spreads  in my white papers. Some call it poetry_ the assymetric pieces  I lend from her, But alas I can't rhyme  nor can sing.. "Slut, slut, slut" the angels chant a harmonious melody more like a rant.. A sacred sin,  love, that made me stand  in purgatory.. My scarle...

//Pain is my religion Grief my lineage// There is always a word I hide in raw sourness  in the back of my throat: pain. pain. pain. And he says that  My sorrows are funny and my tears  are ridiculous. In the clammy sunshine he smiles, a crooked one and I feel like a  dead fly stuck in a window, which will  be wiped out, soon. with his pretty hands. Still with a childish hope I tell him it hurts and he kisses me. His kiss taste like stars, but  it half burns my mouth. I wish to crawl under  a chair and hide, I feel like a sanitary pad in the waste basket of some public urinal. A repeated mutiny in my brain,  my heart weighs enough  to drown me down. Am bleeding fine, no pain, no pain... it's numbness...

 He says " I envy your melancholy the sadness in your eyes" I look at him, confused but he is not looking at me.. With a smile in his lips he continues  "We both got saved by an accident. You know that right?".  He talks poetry, I think to myself. Yes falling in love  was an accident, or was it? I stay silent and so does he listening to the rain.  "Does it hurt?" he asks of no where.  I sigh.  I should act like I don't know what he is talking about. But  I know what he is talking about - how my father punched in my face when I said about us.I say "yes it did".When am with him, am nothing but submission.  He looks right into my eye "Show me where it hurts". No I can't, I don't know where it hurts, or sometimes it's just not easy to express, to show.. He understands, I think..  "Look" he takes my hand in his hand. No, I can't gather the courage to look into his eyes. If I do, the frog will turn into a princes...

 I don't know how to feel when he says "You are a troublemaker".Should i be offended or laugh with my head tilted? I don't know how to feel when an old classmate thanks me for writing her major' paper. Should I be happy or feel sorry for myself?(or her?) I don't know how to feel and what to say when a complete stranger compliments me that I have beautiful eyes. Should I mumble a weak thank you or should I be confused? I don't know how to feel when my friend says am a complete marriage material. should I be happy or is that a criticism? I don't know how to feel when my nephew says "you are insane, who reads 3 novels a day?". Should I laugh it off or tell him that they keep me sane? I dont know how to feel when the neighbor next door asks me about marriage, his old eyes moving through my skin like worms. Should I ignore it or run away to the safety of my room? I don't know how to feel when my cousin points out that my brother js always bett...

 1.what if I die today? no one will know,  yes some may cry but then one day they will forget... what will I leave? not a legacy for sure... A handful of notebooks with meaningless notes. A dictionary with random pressed flowers... some photos with my miserable smile..My book collection I never wanted to share... some clothes_ once loved and then abandoned.. 2. My niece tells am a good story teller... that I know what to tell, how to tell and when to tell..She doesn't know there are more stories that I can offer, more than that of  my tattered old story books.. But I smile and thank her for the compliment .. I bite my tongue about my stories I want to tell her. 3. Caged birds don't sing, Dead birds don't fly. 4. A stranger messages me that I look like a poet.. I think he is another creep but I find myself looking at my reflection, searching for the common factors between me and a dead poet. And I find out she, the poet, was an English literature student too.. And she hang...