Poetry

Eyes

Through the lights of sky

I saw the colour of his eyes

With hues of grey

Rose the scariest storm of mighty dusk

Speck of moon rising in those eyes

Beholding a warning of ruthless love

And I saw it all

I saw how it was possible

To get so lost in those wicked eyes

Poetry

Boycott

When my words fall apart,
When you witness utter silence,
When my syllables crumble before your eyes,

Remind me, To hold you.
Because you know, in order to love you,
I need to touch you; Slow.
Like clouds floating in clear blue sky,
Slow.

And when I love you,
I will stroke your hair,
Trace your eyebrows,
Outline your lips,
Brush your fingers against mine.
Just so you know,
I love better when I’m close to you.

And if I love you,
I’ll make sure you know,
What it means for me
To have your warm fingers touch my cheeks,
Watch you sing,
Listen to your slow breaths when you sleep.

Because you know, in order to love you,
I need to touch you; Slow.
Like clouds floating in clear blue sky,
Slow.

Poetry

Scavengers

Poets,
We poets are scavengers
We survive on rotting memories,
Feed upon dying hearts,
Thrive on shedding tears.

For us, people are muse;
A potential poem.
A terrible heartbreak.
A cliched forever.
An unsent letter.
A living art.
A raging war.

We,
Half human, Half stitches
Half melancholy, Half poetry
A sound of wreckage
A blasphemy.
Our mind, an accident prone area.

The surviving world,
The scavenger poets.
The perfect world,
The imperfect poets.

Uncategorized

The Real You

I see you
Tangled up with me
Limb to limb
Toe to toe
Finger to finger.
Your head in a mess
Your eyes, lil twinkles.

I see you,
Dazzled among City lights
Reading Gulzar to me
Singing classics’ while
you make love to me
Forehead kisses.
I see you,
In broad daylight
Your head still a mess
Your eyes, a shade of emptiness now
Your lips, a synonym of lies.

I see you,
Telling your friend,
You don’t believe in love.
And I see me, in a dilemma
And wonder
Which one of this is you,
The real you

Write Ups

The way I talk to myself

In 6 lines I write,
The pain and the disguise,
In my head lives a voice,
Toxic.
Neither good nor bad,
Does it keep me alive,
Or does it leave me at a
stench of death

Quill, Write Ups

TAMASHA

  • Maybe I sound like a hopeless sentimentalist who will be obsessed with tamasha for the rest of my life . And without any qualms about it , I will continue obsessing over it . Or maybe I belong to that 2% of millennials who understood tamasha .
    Everyone thinks this story is about Tara and all those years . But somewhere I feel it is more of Ved’s story . And every Ved needs a Tara in his life . Maybe I’m more like Ved than Tara that’s why I think like this . I remember not watching this movie for almost a year because some friends gave bad reviews about it and said it’s boring and time wasting story . So almost after a year , one afternoon I was so bored , I decided to watch tamasha . And when I watched it for the first time I thought it’s all about Tara ,But it’s not .

    I connect more to Ved . We are same . When he said ” andar se Kuch aur hi hai hum , aur bahar se majboor ” , I felt him . Just like him , everytime I’m confused or sad I find myself infront of mirror , repeating same things which caused me pain or I can say discomfort in the first place .
    Just like him , I cry , I get annoyed , I get angry , I get mood swings and I can’t handle rejections .
    And the character of Tara , she is the strength of the story and one of the best characters Bollywood can ever give us . And after three long years , I still listen to agar tum sath ho and wat wat wat on a daily basis . It’s a part of my life . Even when I’m writing this , agar tum sath ho is playing in background . Everytime I listen to this song , a line comes which is ” Tum Saath Ho Ya Na Ho Kya Fark Hai , Bedard Thi Zindagi Bedard Hai ” I get goosebumps . I don’t know why , but I do . I’m a lot more like Ved and lot less like Tara . But it’s okay , I got my Tara .
    © Puja Vardhan
Brevity

9:35

In the same moment, you implanted two feelings

  1. home
  2. homesickness

Brevity, Quill

Remnants

We are remnants of people,

some we moved on from,

some we hold onto.

Poetry

Broken record

I call myself a loner 
My nights look a lot like
sinking ships.
Broken record.
Some photographs
(Which now exist only for me)
A yellow box of memories.
A half moon tattoo
(Other half left along with you)
2:30 AM
A bottle of vodka
A hour of regrets
And some intoxicated smiles.
Somehow, all your songs
are now part of my playlist

and then this one plays
‘Tum Itna Jo Muskura Rahe Ho…’
And I smiled again
hiding all of lying within .