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Once I knew a girl

Once I knew a girl with a shrill voice
She was tall and pretty like the origami puppets
She had matchstick hands and plastic hair.
She kept her secrets deep inside herself
Not letting the emotions show on her paper face
One day I heard she swallowed some pills
and they said she took her own life
but I know this was no suicide
she died of a broken heart which she later threw in the waste paper basket
the poems she wrote, I have read, had a longing for a calm and quite death
so now she sleeps and here I cry
when I think of her my lips go dry.

The famous pop singer whose songs I listen to every night
She looks so happy but she is sad inside
I have seen on her fame the gloom which lingers
She is always pointing at others with her thin fingers
I know for sure she soon will die
And they will say she died of marijuana hid underneath her pillow
But I know she is suffering a lot
And one day she will die of a heart rot.
But I just listen to her songs loud
So as to forget her face below the shroud.

That American actress whom I lived once
She is dating a guy who is not good
I can say he will ditch her soon
And I know that she knows it too
But still she let him kiss her on the cheek
Because looking at her face makes her knees go weak.
There are sleeping pills in the pocket of her jeans
And one day she will die of poisoning.
Each one of us Know the truths of the lies
But still we wait for hopes to die
So that we can give blame and point fingers above
And kill ourselves after swearing at heavens.

Thought spirals

The doodles on the edges of my notes

or The butts of the cigarettes I never smoked
or Your fingernails which are too fragile
or Those lip balms which you rarely apply
are mostly the things I think about
I have no thoughts on intricacies of life
neither Am I concerned with your brother's to be wife

I think of people who had fame and
I think of ones who died too young
some shot themselves, some poisoned, and some hung
Musicians, writers, actors and singers of rock punk
why 'Cobain' shot himself on the chin?
'cause he wasn't able to mute his inner din.
'Monroe', you say, died young
I never heard the songs she may have sung
but I do know why she killed herself
Last resort's Death, when you can't fight the demons of your inner self.
Woolf drowned herself, just to escape
what became a demon was once her own consciousness

And I think about the singer whose songs I love
and I know that she will also die pretty young
Don't know how's she going to do it but
Drug Overdose may be one of her ways.

The spirals that I draw may look like a pattern
but they are my thoughts going haywire
Chaos being their only design.

Afternoons

What are the mornings for?

To sleep enough so that you look sane.

What are the nights for then?

Tonot sleep and think of things,

to battle with all the memories.

Nights are for
tearless weeping and silent screams.

What are the evenings for?
for tea cups and long strolls.
To be with the ones you love,
to be true to yourself and her.
To see her and be happiest ever.

What then are the long afternoons left with?

Afternoons are
to think and think
and to float in gloom
and then at last bleed on paper.

Afternoons are also for collecting yourself
And for collecting all the things left behind.

But mostly my afternoons are spent
in thinking about her
and waiting for the evening.
So we can meet
and be happy together.

Love and Pain

So here we are in the midst of this sea

Unnavigable and difficult to swim through
But you won’t drown
Unless you succumb to internal pain

On some of the nights
You have your gashes turn to wounds
and profusely they bleed
the invisible blood till eternity.

It’s like the long summer afternoons, this pain
You sit in your room full of
Hot air, warm misery, and liquid sadness
They flow around you, trying to drown you.

Sink, Sink, Sink deeper in pain
Float deep down and feel it again
The first tears you shed for a broken heart
Or those sleepless nights which made you smart.

Remember those evenings
When you kept staring at the setting sun
And darkness fell all around you
While you sat considering things to shun.

No sun is not romantic, it’s a ball of fire
No nor the moon can arouse you, it’s itself a piece of rock
But still they both love the earth
And hence they keep her away, just to save her from a tragic end.

So is that what we all do
Keeping the ones we love, away
Keeping our black shadows
from darkening their lives.

Of all the legendary stories
I hate Romeo and Juliet’s the most
A relationship no more than
Of a parasite and a host.

She says you should love yourself
And I try my best not to make her sad
But once again she looks at my face
Sensing my sadness, before falling in love again.

Be Happy, stay cool they say
While I try hard to keep emotions at bay
Sometimes I smile just to betray
As my true ones are only hers to know.

Iam lilac in colour

And black is my real shade
And she knows how it’s in my head
And m grateful for not being dead
Yet!

Lullaby

To everyone who slept tonight
I ask thee.
Why am I up while you sleep?
What is this magic, what sorcery?
some days it makes you fall for it,
but on some nights, it’s nowhere to be seen.

Through the door of my room
I see a piece of sky,
broken like glass, kinda dry.

So blue almost black, makes my eyes sigh.
No moon today, she too must have slept,
I am the only one left.

My pen resists but still I write
my head works faster then my hands can write.
I write 'bout love and tales of pain
She says, You write so well, even on topics mundane.

But the question is what is mundane?
and what is normal to a man insane?
All my memories are coming back
a this, and that, and the pieces I lack.

My verses may make you go & hide
or get your brain cells run fast and collide
but can’t wipe the truth
nor your flowing eyes.

Drop by drop I colour these lines
filling my cracks with shades of blue.

And as the night bids goodbye
morning birds put me to sleep, singing a lullaby.

Opposites are alike.

I draw on ruled sheets
same ones on which I write
cutting art pieces into sections
and let them find their own spaces in confines
like I did
for all these years
stuck in a box cage
with open doors
but clipped wings.
You can't fly
when there's no sky
above my head I saw
voids so dark that
they left me awestruck
how they were as beautiful as
the insides of my head
haunting lovely
desperate places
sweet bitter
cold and warm at once.
Beautiful like the
ugly ducks
lit like hell
burning like heavens
alive like pages
and dead like trees.

Can't bid adieu

That song I always skip
Those melodies which I always sing
The love I always crave for
The glasses which I don’t wear anymore
The books I never read
The purpose which I never get
Those old clothes which don’t fit anymore
Those hands which I can hold no more
An ode and song to all those sobs
A goodbye to the comfort that comes from crying
A belief in myself which is once again broke
It is me whom I now despise
To the people whom I have failed
To all the thought trails which derailed
The warm hugs I have memories of
To the people I won’t let go
That darkness which is inside me
The thought spirals which keep on tightening
The albatross which is no more flying
And to the grasshopper I am
See if it makes any sense to you
Because my life was never good to be
But once I again I will fall
This I didn’t know
Oh memories! Can’t bid you adieu
My secrets lost but still safe they reside
I am happy there’s someone to hide
By your rules I do abide.

FAKE

Oh! So fake facades I see
walking and talking all over
these people are crumbling buildings.
Ruined inside but still
painted with the best on the outer walls.

Bottles, Empty. Useless. Thrown
here and there, some broken, some lost.
There was once wine inside
or Vodka which you drank that day
but now they are useless
like the people around us are.

Oh! so fake masks I see
which fall off in front of me
people then tear themselves apart to put a show
but later do run away
afraid of being vulnerable anymore.

I have lost people
like those two rupee coins
which often fall out of the
pockets of my jeans
and how hard I try
I can’t pick them up, them I can’t find.

I do write haphazard thoughts
which come and go every few seconds
and no the lines of my poetry don’t rhyme
but still all of you sing them
along with the rhythms of your heart beats
and that’s why I do write.

The colour Black

I stretched my hand out in air
sitting in my bed
on a long summer noon
and it got smeared with
black out of nothing.

Sitting under the shower
head on the knees, arms folded around legs
water running down my back
and towards the drain
a shade of blue-black.

I stepped out of my room
in the Golden day
but my body was pale
a shade of dirty yellow
spread all over my face.

I looked around
and saw myriads of colours
all different from each other.
but as I touched
the green leaves or the white flowers
my fingers got smeared with sunset red.

So I started to go out
in black outfits
with shades on my eyes
and the whole world looked
painted in the hues of my own existence.

Until I saw a colour so strong
which even my shades weren’t able to change
I went near the source
and she smiled at me
rescuing me of my blacks and greys.

Caged

On hot summer afternoons
the room gets filled with fluid gloom.
You, sit under the shower, neck hung, hands folded
It's not just your monday blues,
it's depression in your face.

Depression I tell them I suffer from.
I acclaim to be a burning angel
and use metaphors to describe my unpoetic life
and they say,
Oh!! the whims of this generation,
so made up, so lame.

So I keep my silences, mum whole day
going around, pushing myself and pulling life.
All this time, breathing the darkness in and out.
Slow, calm and deep breaths.

I feel like the caged birds do
when put out for a while
but flight is a luxury
my wings aren't clipped
but I still can't fly.
It takes courage to rise
it takes a little strength to fly.

and we the people with broken spines
limping souls and faded passions
a head full of ideas but prevalent darkness
are devoid of any strength whatsoever.

I wish

I wish i was born in Autumn
falling like the leaves off trees
detaching from old, touching the ground
sprawling with winds, running with clouds.

I wish i was born in spring
blossoming like the lovely flowers
smiling at everyone, happy in a shorter life
being an ornament to some, waiting for death to arrive.

I wish i was born when rains pour
pure and clean like water
naturally perfumed with Petrichor
falling on leaves, on mud, on flowers.

Alas! i was born in winters
frozen up, cold inside
white as snow, but black beneath
falling as stones, eating up all beauty.

Wish

I wish i was born in Autumn
but there's no use to it now
as i can't be born again
so i wish
i die in Autumn.

I plee to thee
do me a favour
don't burn me later
but instead do bury.

bury me midst the maple trees
in a deserted graveyard
where tombstones are as old as time itself
and the grounds are covered with leaves of fall.

and don't spend on flowers
let nature cover me with reddening leaves.
collect some fallen ones
to put on my grave
as falling is chaos
and i prefer it to peace.

I like tombstones
get one erected for me
white in colour.
He rests in Fall here
let these be these be the words on it.

And if you visit me sometime
after i am gone
do bring some white flowers
covered in drying leaves. ©Vaibhav

Breath those windows open.

We all are waiting,
for a window to break open
so that we too can be free.

To go away from this pain.

To get out of our heads.

I hear about people who were famous
but took their own lives
they had, I think, two parallel minds
two opposite approaches to the same life.
They lived a happy life in the light
but grieved of it in the corners too dark
and cried
and screamed
and begged for help.

He who screamed in the mics
or she, the one who wrote too loud
none of them was really heard
and truly had Joyce said,
Does No one Understand.

We all are kicking to get out,
we all are looking for an escape.
Life is no rose tinted picture
and we all, somehow, are Cobain.
Those who see life as just rosy
are illusive and in danger.

When you die they do mourn
but they don't mourn for you.

Some mourn for the sons and daughters they lost
some fans mourn for the people of fame.

The writers are mourned for their words
while no one mourns
for the real person that were you.

So die die die, get out faster
kick open a door or break a window
gather fame and then leave it all
to be remembered for time infinite.

The moon fades away

Nights wear down and the Sun rises and sets.
we praise the beauty of it all,
we see the Sunrises with hope
and Sunsets invokd love
but what we don't see
is the moon setting.

Moon, the harbinger of joy in some
and pain in others.
The constant companion of solitary lovers
and the subject of songs and poetry
is neglected
as sleep takes over
and we forget to grieve for a few hours.

but Some whose eyes go dry
staring at the skies above
do see the Moon till it dies.

the Moon never sets
it just fades away
slowly and slowly
until completely out of sight
but
it is always there
recurring ever night like Pain.

Pain
which is always there
but is sometimes lapped over
by bouts of happiness.

Momentary, the happiness is
and the pain resurfaces again
every sleepless night
while you watch the moon fade away.

On the college bus

Hey! I remember you girl
I met you in the college bus
The bus was already full
And I asked to sit beside you.

Yes I remember you
I know you’re reading this
I do remember how
You were twisting and turning the lid of your Pen

And I said, “It might hurt.”
And as I spoke
You woke up from your trance
And gave me a broken smile

You searched for the question again
And I joked, “It might hurt the pen”
And you did laugh on it
For the sake of it

And then I went silent
because I saw inside you
places which are deep and dark
and part of your souls which are charred

And I was afraid to poke you
What if you bled darkness
And cry pain and vacuum
From your horrified eyes.

The bus halted and
You stepped off
I do remember it was autumn
And all the trees were getting naked

I know she is not reading it
Or maybe she is
I don’t know, I can’t know ever
The thing is I never asked her name.

Art

i drop my heart on asphalt
and pick up a broken piece
with the jagged edge i slit a vein in my wrist
and use the blood to paint.
i burn the art afterwards
with the flames i set my dreams ablaze
smearing a handful of ashes on my hands
i leave charcoal prints on the pale white wall.

one more piece i pick up, sharper at edges
and carve my name next to the handprints
a polaroid encases the art
i treasure the picture
in my scrapbook with torn pages and a broken spine.

i drop my heart on asphalt
the sound of wreckage is music to me
the shattered pieces; my artwork.

Just before

Just before the night covers the world in monochrome
Just before the day dies in the arms of his lover moon
The skies show up their colours
Clouds sprawled all over
Reaching the epitome of beauty
Just before the curtain falls

Like the lamp, just before going out
Musters up all It's power
To shine and flicker at the top of his might
For the one last time
Just before passing out in darkness.

Like the two people drifiting apart
Cling to each other
On the very last moments of their forever
Feeling each other's presence
Just before the end of their small infinity.

Just before the night covers the world in monochrome
My eyes wander through
The canvases of the azure skies
Admiring the perfect strokes
Of the unknown artist
As if he too painted the masterpiece
Just before dying away into oblivion.

Impressum

Texte: Vaibhav Sharma (August)
Cover: K. Shibaranjini
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 06.05.2018

Widmung:
To all the people who love and read poetry.

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