A list of things about her.

This is probably the shortest poem I’ve written so far, but I really liked the concept and wanted to do it. I hope you enjoy this and share it!


Here is a list of things she smelled of:

Sunlight.
Beginnings.
Expensive perfume.
Hot chocolate.
Feelings.

and a list of things she looked like:

A crisp white shirt.
Sushi.
Sunset.
Christmas lights.
Love.

A list of things she reminded me of:

Empty vodka bottles.
Terraces and stars.
Neck kisses.
Smeared mascara.
The color of sunlight after it hits a bottle of whiskey.
Life.

A list of things she was:

A dragon-slayer.
A smile despite a tiring day.
A favorite song on repeat.
My auto-correct.
Human and alive.
Home..
Mine.


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How to: Be poetry.

What makes you poetry? Let me know in the comments section below. Enjoy!


Hold a paw, and wake up to the woof or the meow of a furry cushion.
Travel, to the closest grocery store open past midnight and buy that candy you used to love as a kid.
Feel.
Let your chapped lips, which has been a Chandler (Straight, but seemed to be otherwise), light up into a crescent moon more often than you used to.
Cry into the lap of your pillow, don’t deprive your cheeks of the season of this rain.
Pick the scab on the wound you got as a hopeless romantic, and fall in love before it heals.
Realize that you have rhyme and reason in this universe.
Find the fire of your soul and let it burn your regrets as it crackles a song into your veins.
Show kindness as a first language in your degree of life. Water a plant and feed a duck for you never know what they’ll do to you in a parallel universe.
Be you.


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Languages, medicines and magicians.

What has music been for you? Let me know in the comment section below! Enjoy reading. Instagram handle: @myspirals


“Music is a safe kind of high.” – Jimi Hendrix

Music is a language, a medicine and a magic trick. Dance to it.

  • Music was his mother-tongue. His tongue fumbled when he spoke English as if it were a foreign language that he hadn’t heard all his life, but when he was alone, he hummed a tune and did not miss a single note. He stuttered and shied away from conversations with strangers, but sang songs with a broad grin around camp fires. When he wasn’t feeling alright, he would shut out completely and listen to music as he thought and thought about what had gone wrong, but you could find small clues hidden in his playlist to make him feel alright.
  • Her soul had been crushed into absolute pieces and her heart had cuts all over. There was a constant ache, that seemed to run like blood in her veins and pillows couldn’t drown it out. But earplugs seemed to drive the pain away completely, or at least numb it. As the lyrics stopped her mind from wandering about, and the music brought her a much-needed gift, she could smile without wanting to scream. Music was her band-aid and no one could rip it off her scars. For her, music was like a steady dose of pain-killers and peace. Music was the only pillow that could drown out the screams, and it was the only shoulder she could cry on.
  • He was broke and broken, but managed to get into the bar right across the street. He needed to feel lost and alive, and so he stepped onto the dance-floor swarmed with broken hearts and night-outs. The music was loud enough to make him disappear as his feet moved about in an unsteady pace. The broken pieces of his heart rattled against each other, but no one could hear it. The pieces slammed against each other and broke into smaller pieces until all that was left was dust. He smiled as he took the dust and blew on it, as if it were fairy-dust and his wishes were going to come true.

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Life.

Life is a bright sun, but it is also a tornado. These are not real stories, but the problems are real. Also, these are two different stories. I hope we survive. Instagram handle: @myspirals


She was only eleven when this had happened. It was a sunny afternoon and she wanted to play with her friends in the park. While playing Hide and Seek, her friends hid here and there and she was alone in the park, skipping and hopping excitedly as she looked for her friends. It seemed to be a good day. While running towards a bush where she thought her friends were hiding, she tripped and scraped her knee. Tears wetted her cheeks as a few drops of blood trickled down her knee. A guy in about his thirties, saw her crying and walked up to her. He consoled her and took her to his house to see the injury.

He used a piece of cloth and rubbed her knee with it to remove the blood, and she gasped because of the pain. Slowly, he started rubbing her thighs and when she tried to back away, he held her leg tightly in place “Let me take care of you.”. He touched her inner thighs and smiled as he moved closer to her area and her eyes dilated with fear. This wasn’t right. She screamed but he used the piece of cloth to tie her mouth. His fingers touched her in places that she now refers to as scars.


He was twenty-one. Life seemed to be a frolic in the park, happy and delightful. He had a mother and two sisters, and he loved them to death. They lived in a small part of the city. He went out to buy food for his family, when out of nowhere, something blew a hundred kilometers away. Almost in succession, there was two more blasts a little to the east of it. He had no idea what was happening, but he ran anyway. Not away from the blasts, though. Towards them. That’s where his house was and that’s where his family was. After running for ten minutes at full pace, he opened the door to his house as his heavy breathing slowed a bit. They were safe.

He took hold of their hands and asked them to hurry as they ran away from the monstrous blasts. They hurried towards the sea where a lot of people seemed to be headed. He saw boats and sighed in relief. They got on the boat and saw their home turn to smoke and dust as they moved away from the catastrophe. Refugees. Where were the refugees headed? Towards lonely hearts and no home.


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Empty hearts.

So I tried something new in which I had to write the poetry in exactly a hundred words. Do read it and leave anything you’d like to say in the comments. Instagram handle: @myspirals


“So, what does it feel like to be empty?”

“Everyone is made of poetries,
and to have that inside of you
but no voice or walls for it to echo,
it can be hard to describe,
if not impossible.

It feels like a sinking Titanic,
that is too cold to realize,
that its life is etching away.
It feels like a long stretch of silence,
that screams out stories
and unheard rants.
It feels like a mirage
that you’ve somehow reached,
and you live the illusion.

I don’t know, really.
It feels like a nothing in a something.
Numb. Empty.”


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