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City of Stars

City of Stars

*city of stars playing in the background*

 

I often go out on long walks;

palms a little sweaty

skies a little starry.

On nights like these

I often miss:

eyes to drown in

palms to fit it

lips to lock in.

I haven’t understood love

ever.

It has been like a foreign language to me.

I see people conversing in them; effortlessly.

And here I am,

a little too impatient,

a little too prone to

lose things in translation.

But on nights like these;

I am a little hopeful,

a little naïve.

I am blind to love.

Deaf to languages.

Scared to admit.

 

But on nights like these;

I am a little hopeful,

a little naïve.

So, appear.

I will be out on the walks

for quite some time.

Even a fortnight (If it comes that).

I still don’t understand love.

It is still like a foreign language to me.

But when you come,

I will raise my hand,

Leave messages on these stars

(that people write on rocks)

in dots and dashes – the way my heart

skips beats when I see you.

and hopefully,

you will know morse.

The prompt was "Night sky, the moon, stars, and of a romantic tone" given by Nivid Desai.
If you want a custom poem typed on a typewriter; submit a prompt by clicking here

Featured Artwork by Aditi Shastry. To see more of her work check out her Instagram
The girl who loved the oceans

The girl who loved the oceans

It was said that she used to carry

every favourite memory

with her; in a clenched fist.

every favourite thing

on her shelf.

and I would ask,

Where are the oceans

that you love with all your heart?

She would say

“Look into my eyes, silly”

And, I would drown.

Every

Single

Time.

Blur

Blur

Imagine a Grand Prix.
Final lap.
Cars rushing like meteors.
Crashing and Burning,
Twisting and Turning.
That’s how thoughts run
in this tiny head on mine.
That’s the anatomy of the
mind of an over-thinker.
Like auto-correct suggestions
on a keypad;
we think of possibilities.
Like fishing with a thousand
hooks;
we pluck probabilities.
We don’t carry a halo
on our heads.
We carry a blur on our faces.
No No No No No,
We aren’t the faceless.
We are just looking at the
processes running in the background.
Nothing surprises us.
What you are thinking
is already been thought
when we were thinking of
what you will think
when we tell you what we
think when you think of
what we are thinking.

Mind-fuck?
Yes,
That’s our perpetual state
of being.

 

Featured Image captured and edited by @icapturethee

Anonymous

Today’s Prompt: To all the poor ugly folks who know that they will never be anyone’s first preference. To all the broken lonely souls who are locked deep in the chamber of insignificance. To all those who remain a shade in the shadow; its not the starlight that’s not reaching you but its the heart that’s refusing to shine!

I am the side kick.
The second favourite child.
The shirt you settled for.
I am the insignificant one.
The “others” that you refer to?
That’s me.
Hell, I am not even the face of “others”.
I am the faceless.
I am the one who has no name.
And no, that, by the way, doesn’t make me precious snowflake.
I am the snowflake that tripped and fell while coming down the stairs.
I am broken.
But I mended myself.
But the cracks are visible.
Like white stitches on black trousers.
And I was told that it makes me special.
It doesn’t.
There are far too many broken souls out there who are waiting
with their hearts open with glowing signs at the door that spells “Waiting Room”.
And last time I checked, no one gives a fuck about glowing signs on a highway.
I am not complaining that the light isn’t shining on me.
It is.
But I am at the brink of the spotlight.
Visible, but not enough.
There’s light inside, yes.
And that’s what keeps me going.
But I am never going to be visible.
Even if I make a body transformation.
Get blue eyes.
Increase my biceps’ size.
Because the light just brightens up my hallways.
And everyday, it’s a party.
But it doesn’t go out.
And how will it?

I have painted the windows black.

 

Want me to write on something specific?
Suggest a prompt here

Words

Words

by Aditya Mankad 0 Comments

The words.
They are dying to come out of my mouth.
When you hear my stomach rumble,
I am not hungry.
Well, I might be.
But I know the difference.
The voices are the whispers,
Whispers of the butterflies in my belly and the words.
Them, planning a devious plan to tell the things that I must not say.
To tell her that I… I am weak.
I don’t like people running over me.
With bulldozers of rejection and truth.
I wish I can blurt right things at the right time.
Like “No, I am not okay. I have been sailing in the storms without a sail and a boat made of paper” but I end up saying “Yeah, heh, mood swings.”

Like “I know it is hard. Hard to digest the fact that I fell for you. Faster than the midsummer rains. Faster than the train of thoughts that come to you when you miss the step, faster than…Faster than the blood pumping in the veins.
The veins that now carry the messages written on rocks and castles, that we..um.. I think of writing on stars.

The words are planning a coup.
And thanks to you, my guard is already down.
So here I am, defenceless.
Waiting to be taken over by the very things I created.

That day when you said hi on WhatsApp…

4 seconds after I had said “sorry”.
5 minutes after I had said, “I can’t do it”.
6 hours after I had said, “we need to talk.”
7 days after we had chai and you had sutta at our regular place”
8 months after I wrote my first poem for you.
9 years after..9 years after I started believing in love at first sight.

I almost typed in “listen, I like you. No, scratch that. I FUCKING LOVE YOU.

The strings are no more attached.
You don’t control me anymore.
But the empty thread holes and the dent in my heart stretch and ache at every sighting of yours.
Drawn to you like it is meant to be.
And the words have been heartbroken.
They still dwell in the past.
They still haven’t moved on.
So tell me this,
How does it matter if I have?”
*tik tik tik*
*Deleted*
I just typed in “Nothing Much, you tell me.”

So the next time I meet you,
Maybe don’t think that I am too sweet if you see me smiling back at you.
I am just pressing my lips as hard as I can,
So that I won’t shoot fireworks out of my mouth.
So that I won’t say the things that the walls of my body hold together.

I am scared okay?
When she puts her head on my chest and hears the pounding of my heart,
I am afraid that the words will slip out from between the skipped beats.
And now,
The skipped beats have stopped visiting,
It is their own way of showing how they are mad at me.

And I miss that.

Mostly because they used to sit together and stick letters,
;make babies,
call them words and send them to my eyes and fingers.
The fingers often got good responses.
But the eyes gave mixed signals.

Look how they have ganged up against me.
Even the fucking eyes have been oozing with things left unsaid.
It is them, the words.
I can’t hold them.
So this is what they are doing,
Writing a poem.

This didn’t start as a love poem.
But it is turning out to be one.
Unlike our story,
This one will see its end.
Ours is a site under construction,
And the workers have scurried away because of the ghosts of the past.
Ours just sits by the west coast waiting to see the sunrise on an eclipse.

Ours is the word that didn’t make it on the last page of a book.

Unlike ours,
Some stories
Have
An
Ending.

 

 

Featured Image made by Aishwarya Sainath

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