chaiNboli

There are thousand underground tunnels in the cities you walked through, you say. Dusty tunnels where woodpeckers like you searched for trees to rest. The absence of a home is what you find there. In the beads of pomegranates you carve your name, mad at all the tender flowers that are  destined to die within a week. You are fatigued sunlight kisses  so you ask ants to hug you. In the middle of a day you are drowning in the storms,   Not knowing that when you smile it is moonlight that is   falling out of your mouth. Zipping up every wound you have you say love is not an adjective but a noun. Who will tell you that there is softness even in a torn out cardigan and that's enough to Wipe up the tears of a lazy child? Who will tell you the ink spilled is a unique picture no one can recreate now? Who will tell you that you are the rain kissed coat lingering near a hot glass of coffee? Who will tell you that you are enough? Save the poem in your kangaroo pocket...

Heaven cries for a mother, Asking a returning cloud to pass the message. In the roots of the sacred trees hangs a woman, A beetle's stained slogan murmur in the air. Look at the warriors, the ones who are not afraid of bullets. The ones who are not afraid to laugh, while transforming themselves to dreamcatchers  Inside Tihar's walls. Like a wheat they die and live, Feeding hope to yet to be borns. Riding in hot air ballons they talk of world in new colours, Forgetting that they are colour blind. Icecreams taste like medicines they complain, ignoring their canines biting tongues and smearing red. Sugarcane oysters in pockets they dig every ground to find hope, blue and saggy, just like a poem lost in translation. The world blink at them with leaves gone brown, Sinking with the last of them was a mothers wish and a lover's kiss. They ask us to  Wipe our fingers on our flag, And tell to them Whom will we kill When there is nobody left. They ask us  Why should they practice ...

Sun is throbbing inside your throat, An itching, honey winged butterflies are afraid of. Your gloom is the evidence of your existence, which you caress with baby powder imported from a land you have never heard of.  Your grief is an animal wail in a human mouth, searching for a blood sputtering rose in the midst of a family gathering. Your gloom is proofreading every sentence you make,  Because she is where your syllables in a foreign accent break water in an attempt to sustain . Your gloom is a lended lip balm where chopped lips dig their nails, A shoe rack where dirty feets of planet look for a hidden God.  Your grief is a fluid you store in ducts and under the roar of pipes, like an illicit child with a cleft lip. Your grief lay map to the snow globe in the place of your mind, your neck tattooed with the stars so broken to align themselves. Your grief is like a tyrant afraid of songs, but it pleads to a cuckoo not to stop its small talk on autumn mornings. Your grie...

To whomever reading this, Poetry is the second form Of therapy i studied. The first was suicide. Are you calling me a land mine in walking? I speak in metaphors you say. I live in similies you scoff. If I say the pavements are softer  than the home, will you laugh? I collect corners of masterpieces,  A flower picker no goddess will smile at. My chlorin skin lined with blue lines, an inferno in place of chest, a polaroid brain not brave enough to forget. If i swallow so much sunlight Will i become what you want me to? I weight myself and try to take care of my grief, Just like a sparrow trying to lift an elephant, And when i smile it tastes like a Halloween candy in starving mouth. Do me a favour. Burn an incense stick on my throat, until only silence remains, until am longer a lier. If i stop inviting my lovers with stories of tragedy, will they stay a little longer holding on to my fractured fingers? Do me a favour, will you? Erase all the screams in my dreams, which i mistoo...

Those who prayed for roses  called us silly for giving our clothes to trees on winter. They offered us toffees  for every word we said, without seeing our eyes turning corrosive with each year. They were reading us  stories of little pigs When we tip topped  towards the sun, ready to melt our bones  so that we can taste  something other than anger. In the dark we sat and waited  for the tendrils of  our mother tongue to  find us and caress us while  they told us we are useless. We won't tell that that  it's a comfort that it is them who twisted the sickle into our hearts. Instead we write poems, breath starved and with hands  that are stiff from riger mortise. Instead we weight the bullets wondering whether it is heavier than  what we wish to kill. Instead we wash our hearts so that  we can clean their dirty feet. Today we are kittens who love ignorance,  wrapping our veins around  wrists of strangers  ...