Poetry, Quill

The Weaver

Amidst the rain
Amidst the thunder
There was a tiny weaver
Seeking to build itself a nest
Typical yet stood out the rest.
The tree swirled a million times
The twigs kept falling off the climb
Still determined.
That bird endured the bitter clime
It tried and tried until the nest held shape
And not for once did the bird even attempted an escape
What startled me the most was not the nest
It was average looking yet better than the rest
What startled me the most was the bird.
Its persistence its trivial and its pluck
And if that tiny weaver could brook such a hefty trap
What has made us handicapped?

Poetry, Quill, Write Ups

A Gospel //

// you can build the thickest,
strongest, tallest door but
grief will find its way in ;
you can have the perfect body
but sadness with find itself a spot ;
you can surround yourself with
all the fanciest things yet
your heart will yearn for love ;
you can pretend to be numb
but loneliness with demand to be felt ;
however ordinary or extraordinary
lives we may lead,
we are all plagued by our sorrows,
just hoping tomorrow brings less pain. //

Poetry, Quill

माँ

मैं मिलों दूर ही सही
वो कभी फासला नहीं करती
मैं कभी भूल भी जाऊं बात करना
वो कभी मलाल नहीं करती
मेरी याद में बहाती होगी आसूं बहुत
मगर दर्द को अपने बयान नहीं करती
मांगती रहती है जाने दूआएं कितनी
पूछूं जो कभी तो कहती है गिना नही करती
दे कर अपना सब कुछ मुझको
वो माँ ही तो है जो कभी हिसाब नहीं करती |

Poetry, Quill, Write Ups

A New Understanding //

// look at your ‘protruding’ belly
and see how it houses the
nourishment for your entire body,
look at your ‘bulky’ arms
and see how they make magic
out of everything they touch,
look at your ‘scarred’ legs
and see how they let you
experience all the wonders of the world,
look at your ‘boring’ eyes
and see how they capture
everything you love so deeply,
look at your ‘flawed’ smile
and see how it expresses
all the joy you feel,
look at yourself –
your beautiful self,
how dare you ever convince
yourself that you weren’t
good enough because you
don’t look like you were chiselled
out of beauty magazine 101;
look at yourself with
a gentle gaze
and you’ll realise that
just like you,
your body craves for
love and acceptance too. //

Poetry, Quill

Thunder

the rain felt like a fading memory
before i met you
but that night
i felt like
there was a legacy between me & the sky
the rain poured in torrents
& a numbing sense of pain
that we both felt in our hearts
seemed to fade away
as we both touched
it felt as if
two souls have become one
we heard the sound of our thoughts
and the heart pumping
inside two shallow mediocre human beings time stopped
unfurling all senses as a taste of you
nearly silenced all my thoughts
but that night
as the oceans, the skies, the moon
looked upon us
they were envious
of the smell of thunder that hung in air
we could feel a fire within us
& no amount of rain could’ve doused it off.

Poetry, Quill, Write Ups

Happiness //

// the waterfall
inside of me
has learnt the
right momentum
to flow with;
no more floods,
no more droughts,
just a gentle cascade. //

Poetry, Quill

इष्क़

प्यार बोहत है उसको मुझसे,

मगर गुस्से में शायद, 

आज हाथ उसके झूल गए,

कैसा बेदर्द इष्क है तेरा,

क्यों ले रहा कुर्बानी,

औरत हूं, कोई पाप नहीं,

पर इस प्यार, इष्क़, मोहब्बत में,

शायद हम इज्जत देना भूल गए।.

Poetry, Quill

ज़िंदा तो हो ही ना तुम!

तो क्या हुआ जो दिल टूट गया,
ज़िंदा तो हो ही ना तुम!

तो क्या हुआ जो ख्वाहिशें नहीं हुई पूरी,
तो क्या हुआ जो छोड़ गया वो तुम्हे,
तो क्या हुआ जो इबादत सरीखा ईश्क़ अधूरा रह गया,
ज़िंदा तो हो ही ना तुम!

तो क्या हुआ जो अंदर सब खोखला सा रह गया,
ज़िंदा तो हो ही ना तुम!

तो क्या हुआ जो दिल हो गया पत्थर,
तो क्या हुआ जो आँखें बन गयी दरिया,
तो क्या हुआ जो लिपट गयी खामोशियाँ,
ज़िंदा तो हो ही ना तुम!

तो क्या हुआ जो दिल टूट गया,
ज़िंदा तो हो ही ना तुम!

Poetry, Quill

Sinful Ink


The poison is falling off the blade of my pen,

It’s beautiful, the scrawl upon a dead body,

Wonder lies in the breath of a child,

As it climbs atop a tree,

he finds paradise,

But this child is now a part of them,

He poisons his pages,

In the memory of someone he loved,

He paints a picture,

not a thousand words,

Only three would satisfy his heart,

The poison is falling off the blade of my pen,

And it’s clearing my mind and my soul from within,

I want it, not desire it,

I need it, not require it,

My venom is out, it’s flowing from my pen,

My poetry, it opens me, such a beautiful sin.

Quill

How I Write?

I am not that great of thinker or writer kinds. I love to read what my fellow mates write, how fluently their words form a harmony with each other and kind of engulf you, in contrast to my muddled up writing. I guess what I write does not have that pain, or the heartache that fuels the flow of the others.

On some days, I read beautiful-beautiful poetries, piece of works. I am left wondering how can you write this flawlessly. like how do you know what to write after the core idea. The other day, this line ‘you have to be someone’s pain to be written about’ came into my mind. but as soon as I sat down to write, I was blank. The cursor was pointing at me and I did not know what to write after this.

And another thing that constantly stops me is that as soon as I put my thoughts in word, they start looking at me like the most absurd thing ever. And I backspace all of it.

The same is happening with this one also, I think I’ll publish it before I press backspace.