seen from Yemen
seen from Türkiye
seen from Sweden
seen from China
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seen from United States
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seen from United States
seen from United States
I hate that its your blood, that's flowing in my veins, I hate it when people, tell me I'm just like you, I'm not a blessing, but a product of your curses, My therapist asked me, Why I slit my wrist, I told her that it was you, and I wanted to bleed out, the curses you had blessed me with.
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Numbly melancholic,
and pathetically -
ironic.
driven by indifference
to an immovable creek.
disproportionately warped
by oneself, gently in the air.
unresolved and unconsummated;
I am the fish stuck under a rock.
Last night I awoke with a start. It was a dream, in which you had decided to come back. I lay awake; still and quiet. Wondering where you are. An epiphany. You were right here, With me in my dream; And I was in yours. Since we can't clasp our fingers together And sit by the ocean anymore. Dreams are where I can smell your perfume. Without holding back; without the fear that my love can drive you away. It is where I spend a bountiful Of love. Where I Merrily dance round and round And throw petals all around. There are no flowers, No thorns. There's no fear of getting hurt, while I lose myself spending love. #write #writer #writersofinstagram #instawriter #writersofinstagram #instasmile #instagramers #instasmile #poet #poetry #poemsofinstagram #poetsofinstagram #poem #poemporn #wordporn #spilledink #brokenverses #writewithme #writing #instawriter #indianwriter #writersofindia #indians #indianwriter #writerscommunity
But beautifully beforehand
you were three notes;
on a clef I hadn’t scribbled,
not just yet -
Now you’re twelve words,
on a page three miles long.
definitely didn’t know,
that much to soon
was three hours ago.
10:21 p.m
*10:04 p.m I want to cry*
Can I re-do those couple of measures?
‘Life's for living Micah’
I think I got lost on bar three -
‘Go take a gap year!’
right next to your bloody mess.
I’ve fallen off the stave,
‘Count Micah! One and two and thee and…!’
the one you put me on
“Contact point! Contact point!”
and...
*12:09 p.m leaving practice room*
can I give up now?
Can I step outside of my life for two seconds?
*9:20 a.m why am I still limping?*
this piece was prematurely written,
I think I need to grow up now
“You’ll do fine, see you after choir”
one more movement of Brahms.
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Up Bow.
I might skip a few bars,
because your rhythm is difficult to follow -
In this music before time
and the time between bars.
Metre and breathe
in the silence that,
doesn’t really exist -
because you exist,
between the notes,
too close together -
In the unwritten space, and music
that is much too ambiguous ,
in the words and sounds
that give rhythm and meter,
to living that knew love -
so beautifully benevolent.
I’m having conversations with myself
and I’m scared of pictures of you -
little lifeless documents on the shelf
I think I’m gonna write something blue.
I’m scared of notes on a staff
words on a page,
books on the shelf.
and people outside.
I’m having conversations with myself
