Whisky Words: Project (2)

This is Submission TWO of The Whiskey Words. The Whiskey Words is a writing project (and a giveaway), and if you’d like to participate, here are the rules.


The Face of Evil

I have personally seen the face of Evil
Only once in my life.

Only once in my life has it
Been so bold as to show me its face.
Usually it works very hard to hide
To make sure people are so focused on their work
That they can’t see it.
But I have seen the face of evil.

I was seven.
I lay sprawled out at the bottom
Of a long flight of stairs
Where I had
“fallen.”

There was absolute silence
Absolute stillness

I’m not sure that either has been broken yet.

Finally I looked up at the boy
At the top of the stairs
And all I could see was the face of evil
Etched on the backs of the heads
Of my classmates walking away.

– Seiji Yamashita (blog)

Love thyself.

Hey.
I believe that there are so many of you out there who deserve to be read, and heard. So, I am starting a project, wherein I will post compositions made by you on my blog throughout March (and to spice it up a bit, giveaway a book to the author of my favorite post). I’ll choose fifteen of the submissions to post in the month of March. The compositions can be poetry, short stories, or anything you’re mind is dealing with. Love, chaos, society, peace, war, pets, or any other topic you can come up with, go ahead and send it to me. It shouldn’t have been posted anywhere else. (This is for me to be able to provide my readers with new content by new authors.)
DM it on : Instagram, Facebook
Mail : utsavraj3@gmail.com
Or just drop it in the comments. Please do participate, it would turn out to be an amazing month if you do. The giveaway book will be one of my favorites, or yours. We’ll talk it out when you send me your compositions.
For now though, enjoy this post!


“Draw a monster. Why is it a monster?” – Janice Lee

Monsters aren’t people,
They aren’t under your bed.
There’s only one.
The one inside your head.
The one that promises every night
That nothing will be okay,
That life isn’t fair;
That you’re miserable.
The one you believe.
But “every monster
has a sob story.”
You have to listen to,
and talk to,
and love
The monster inside of you.
Because no one else ever did.
You make monsters
and you can heal them.
This is not a war,
This is the first step
you have to take
To love yourself.
Just be careful.


Previous post : Then how come it isn’t?
Related post : Snow.

Then how come it isn’t?

Friends, if you like reading my work, do share it with your friends (on whatever social media you deem appropriate). Please help my infinity grow bigger ∞


The last time I kissed her, I kissed her with a little more passion than our lungs could hold on to. I let my hands pull her in, and my eyes close to make sure I remembered what she was like.
She tasted like a Monday morning I didn’t hate and dirty coffee mugs of the night before. She tasted like grocery shopping where we ended up with just a stick of gum, and the cashier gave our smiles and giggles a weird glance cause clearly we shouldn’t shop at 3 A.M? She tasted of sunrays and tanned skin, and of crazy ways to seduce each other. She tasted like a cold November night on the terrace with my arms around her and her head on my chest and our eyes on the stars. She tasted like broken frames and mended hearts and salty tears and not being able to stay apart.
She reminded me of the time I ran my fingers through her hair, and she ran her fingers through the knots in my souls. She reminded me of the time I kissed her salty skin right after coming out of the sea, and her fingers holding onto my wet hair and pulling me in. She reminded me of sleeping all day and watching Barney all night. She reminded me of soft chuckles, and loud moans.
She was my ‘Irish’ coffee and she was the Rachel to my Ross. She reminded me of moonlight on her knees as I trailed my fingers up. She reminded me of empty bottles and half-eaten snickers. She reminded me of promises that smelled of chocolate cookies and assurances of being in Wonderland if I ever fell again.
She tasted like an eternity and reminded me of the fault in our stars. We could not end up together, but we did have a bigger infinity than we ever imagined we could have. She was the Robin to my Barney and the little forever she gave me was legen – wait for it – dary.
Didn’t you think you’d meet someone, fall in love and that’d be it?


Previous post : Fairy-tale love.
Related post : Kisses and cravings.

Mirages and ink bottles.

I am a pen. This might sound like a metaphorical exaggeration, or an ornamented fact, but it is what I am. Every time I hear the same song that you loved on the radio, it’s like a cut on the side of my arm, and the ink just flows out. Every nick and cut that I get onto my calloused skin, just turns into a bruise that I wear as battle scars and gripping stories. Every time I look at the sunlight through the tinted windows of my car, I cannot help but associate the golden hue to the hazel of your eyes. Every time I look at the vast emptiness that expands beyond the final steps of a cliff, I cannot help but imagine the jagged rocks hidden in snow to be my best friends crooked front teeth, or the jump to the bottom to hide stories of wonderland. You never know what’s hiding just beyond the point your eyes cannot see.

I don’t consider myself a writer, or the pen as a fancy extension of my arm. I don’t believe in using words to heal my pain, or writing as an escape from this cruel world. I don’t make routines and set time periods for the words to find a way out, and I don’t plan on keeping them inside of me where the dark waves can hit the sun drenched sand and wipe them away. I am not a lonely or broken man wandering on hot sidewalks among a cluster of thoughts and people, wondering why you left me, or why no one talks to me the way you did.

When I see the wailing child staring at the ice cream vendor as if that’s all he ever wanted, I cannot help but smile and think about the wishes I’ve had as a child and even as an adult. And when all of this stays in my mind, my brain becomes a volcanic land with words as molten ink, erupting onto snow sheets, paper lines, and electric screens. I don’t wait for the right moment or for the memorable one. I just find things beautiful, and I let you know. When an injured boy cries on the television and countries blow up, or a young girl is found dead on the streets, or you’re just the happiest you could ever be, you’ll bleed blue too. We all will. There’s nothing hiding beyond the point your eyes cannot see, except mirages and an ink bottle.


Previous post : This damn world.
Related post : Tsunami

Friends, if you like reading my work, do share it with your friends (on whatever social media you deem appropriate). It would be amazing to have more people reading my compositions. Please help my infinity grow bigger ∞

Broken.

“I’m always tired, but never of you” – Gnash

She smelled of sweet syrups and fresh roses, of expensive perfume and cheap thrills, of long drives and messy hair.

I miss her. I miss the songs that we sang at the top of our voices, the pictures that we clicked with our dog between us, and just sleeping all day long. I miss looking into her sleepy eyes with hot chocolate in our hands and just love in our hearts. I miss not having to miss her because I knew she wouldn’t leave me, and I miss not being alone late at night or early in the day, whenever I had a breakdown. You see, that’s why love is so unfairly criticized, because it can end friendships some times. I miss her being with me, but I don’t know if I miss us. There’s nothing to miss, so even when I try, I just fall apart with no memories to hold onto.

I dial her number every day just to hear the familiar ring of her cell, but I cut every time just after she says hello, cause I don’t know what I should say. I fear that once I start talking, there’ll be no stopping me and I’ll just go on about how I loved her and she never knew. I’d use words like waves against the walls of her heart, and I know she would try to calm me down, but anything she could say would only be like the howling wind acting as a fuel for the forest fire that my heart is in. I fear that I’ll tell her I am in pain because of something that we never became, of something that she doesn’t even know of.

I play the same songs on the radio in my car every day, and drive by the coffee shops, and flower stalls and empty streets that often call out for our presence. The receptionist at Walmart asks me why I haven’t been shopping late at night anymore, and the food vendors ask me why I look so dull. Little do they know, that I miss her muddy slippers and soft hands, and that I have lost her forever.

I miss her smell.

She smelled of sweet syrups and fresh roses, of expensive perfume and cheap thrills, of long drives and messy hair.


Previous post : To my life-savers.
Related post : Cinderella’s shoes.

Friends, if you like reading my work, do share it with your friends (on whatever social media you deem appropriate). It would be amazing to have more people reading my compositions. Please help my infinity grow bigger ∞