Colourless green ideas sleep furiously; Colourful dark emotions are wide awake,
Colourless green ideas sleep furiously; Colourful dark emotions are wide awake,
We are blinded in tranquillity,
Surfacing the judgment from the canvas of the lost.
We run across intimate to their existence
Never to leave our trace in the thought.
Loyal as the wind, held by a storm,
Unknowingly affected by the sea,
Determined blindly by the play of a song,
We dance to the cause, only listening to the impact,
Rational verdicts that proclaim love as a fact.
Simple, yet complete, unlike the dreamer of the seas,
Our essence lies in the gravity,
The pull that enacts and justify each deed.
If you fall, only justice shall hear your call,
For I am the message that resonates the heartbeat in the fall.
A daughter burned within the womb,
Born beautiful, yet barely alive,
Sits alone, on a tree that stood through the times,
When the fire had taken over my love for the lies.
I, named Amrapali, almost withered like the leaves,
Had to find an aura, an ocean that could heal through its site.
How beautiful, the root to the lotus would sit in tranquillity,
Guiding the likes of me towards the shore,
Through the clear waves from the universe,
Dementing the moulded clay of Karma.
The ocean, without the name,
Would ask us to close our eyes to feel the waves,
Powerful, healing to the core,
Where no name could suffice, but simply adore.
The names still ask if all I do is dream,
They call for Ajatshatru, They sing his deeds,
But how trivial the fire in the names and the place,
As if the hate co existed in the name of love,
Rather a blame from the faith?
Come dear names under the Peepal,
Where the ocean sits to adore the rain.
I hear more than my voice in those songs,
Somewhere, in between the screams,
A symphony would come to life and sing along.
I would stop, and wait for the wind to hit me,
But without the screams, I was alone,
So, I kept screaming till the verses came to live,
And heal the scars from the last night.
Many years and each night, so hollow,
A void within the blood, the rage I had to swallow.
With every single needle of the poison,
The blood would rush to the shore,
Where I could hold the melodious lore.
She would stay and enchant her rhymes,
But when the sun could burn the flesh,
She would die in agony of the screams and rest.
The poison had flushed my veins,
The music stayed, the blood is slowing down with grace,
Soon, I shall burn the sun,
As the ocean of the poison has overcome.
Image Courtesy: Google.
“Hey, Alex. I guess I am sick. It is time to wake up.” I could only feel the febrile decay of my strength. My body was warm to its core, the brittle memories from the weird dream added to the problem. ” I had a weird dream. Fever dream, I suppose..”.
“Good Morning, take an off today, Dr Atlas. You think so much.” she came closer to kiss, the touch of her lips was cold. ” It is bad. You should have a break. Stay at home, I will come early as well.” Her voice was comforting, yet my body felt as if it would melt from the shivers through my skin. I took out the medicine and swallowed it with the last sip of water left in the water bottle.
“Yes, I will text them that I cannot come. Have a good day. Make something delicious. I need some positive energy in my mind.” I smiled at her and kissed her for a brief moment. The moment was not enough, but my body was not normal. I smiled again and closed my eyes, afraid of the dream yet searching for the answer of the Vedas. Wisdom could not reach to me eventually, the dream made no sense.
The endless and immortal space, a dream again. A drop of sweat rolled down my face. Another dream with no wisdom of real context of my life.
It was the space this time, completely empty just a sort of a cluster of beautiful colours in front of me. I was not breathing, not moving, not listening, but I was there. Kept at the moment, waiting for something to wake me up. I placed my vision onto the bright colours in front of me, the cluster looked like a coloured river contained by the moment. I close my eyes, trying to wake myself. I was stuck again, sweating with the vision of a giant super nova. A dead star, ironically my mental status at the very moment; a mind incapable of allowing the wisdom of the experience, process through its core.
I helplessly stare at the blend of colours, a golden glow around the deep red and blue blend of its centre. To the little philosophy in my head, it reminded me for the colour of blood revamped with the blue of the sky. Symbolic of danger, life and peace. I was certainly lost. I kept looking till my mind could perceive an image of a women’s face in the dead star. A beautiful face, red on the inside and the blue slowly converted into the black like the rest of the space. A slow descent of the blue into the darkness. A sudden sound gave me chills, it was music. A violin, a sad-single instrument that seemed to be the void around me. The face had darkened on the edges of the colour. The eyes had the blue, rest everything was red. Red to the essence, I did not even try speaking. Waited for the silly dream to send more cues of my sub-conscious head.
The music slowed down with the image of the women blinking her eyes, the movement again went forth to disturb the darkness. Her lips appeared and slowly the space around me began to detonate with a powerful tone to go along with the violin.
Each word is supposed to uplift your existence from the hell,
Each phrase had to pull your essence to the blue,
But you desired the blood! The wars!
You belonged to the skies, But the hour is rather broken to fly,
The words were dead when the red had coloured the race,
Only a few remain in the isolated verse,
You sought wisdom and here you end,
Dying with the meaning of those words as the ornament,
Just keep your soul, listen till inferno,
Sophia from the Republic has died,
They never read Plato in the dim light,
I only exist in this lost cell of thoughts,
Inside the mind of a sick person, inside the blank pages that were lost.
My body was almost gone out in the darkness, absorbed and devoid of my sense to a greater extent. Her face, the face resembled Alex. Sophia, rather a philosophy from the book I am supposed to read.
Held by the symphony of the universe,
She danced to the music of the rain,
But the world, too rational to understand,
Drove a concrete wall to her land,
She blended her love into a rhyme,
For the world to dance in the night,
But how do they fathom darkness as their light,
How do they believe the world doesn’t render their dreams,
She plated the words onto a social plane,
Thinking maybe the souls will rejoice the claims,
And dance to the beats of the illusion that these shadows create,
But nothing was left of her to preach the world,
She went as one to the source of the song,
And the world was left with a blur of her aim,
They danced, but only on the plate she made,
Only her words remained under the literal space,
And here a son writes her account misunderstood by the human race.
To the South Owl,
The sun is at the end of its line,
and stars are climbing up through my mind,
lights have gone off into the glares,
and all I can feel is the air,
Through your hair, I believe,
I see my senses breathing free through our dreams.
Miles away from our beating hearts,
We find our solace in the stars,
The place out of their reach,
Within the realm of love and believe,
Kept secret within our screens,
Not for the universe to peek through our need.
You rest your owl out in the south,
And my letters scream out the words aloud,
I hope these terms will fly out through our sigh,
and meet with the owl into your blood stream, high !
“Hi there my dear ! I know we miss the bench and tears,
But here we are again, assembling the stars to appear ,
I know our faiths might not rhyme,
But poems are for human’s mind,
We don’t need these fancy lines,
We will redefine the story line.
Hear me out, I am screaming loud,
From miles away from my lonely town.
Let birds sing our song to break their vow,
Till then come with me and we will dance around to a song unknown .”
I wrote this from an ink of my crown,
And I will feel it till my end is announced,
This is not a painted noun,
But a poet breathing rhymes, through your sound.
#joke #lol #haha #funny #hilarious
Holding it all together with 1 bobby pin. I'm a 24 year old homeless mom; holding on to hope & sanity. Documenting true events, thoughts, & opinions: while dealing with mental illnesses, scars from the past, & learning to love. Simply writing this because my quality of life is being compromised; with the inability to control negative thoughts & emotions: Chronic Over-Thinking. My mind spends a huge amount of time & energy on specific lines of thought; usually pertaining to my rough childhood or the struggles of currently being homeless. I don't have full control over my mind or emotions. So to keep myself busy, I'm considering this as my type of councleing.. unprofessional psychiatric self help diary sessions.
When I hear this sound that awakens me, intimidating its way into my cloistered night, I write...
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