Suppressed Cries

7 am tolls.
Oh, it’s another morning.
Is it?
No.

 

Well,
How will you know?

 

Brush your teeth,
Gather your covers,
Dress up,
Show a smiling face to the mirror,
See yourself.
Are you conscious?
No.

 

Welcome to another day.
All laced up,
Following the track,
Without any variation,
Without any change,
Like it was drawn,
Back there in times.

 

Walk.
Wait.
Walk.
Take a glimpse of your social life,
Meeting persons,
No.

 

Staring at veils,
Multiple layers.

 

Type.
Tap.
Type.
Share with them your stories,
Are they real?
Is it what it is?
No.

 

Connecting with screens.
Living with its elements.

 

Swirl around,
Round.
Round.
And round.
Among a thousand of people,
Talk work,
Talk money,
Talk love,
Talk lust,
Talk fantasies,
Talk dreams,
Talk gossips,
Talk stories,
Are they real?
Or, is it what it needs to be?

 

Hearing their stories,
Blurting them yours,
Do you get them?
Do they get you?
No.

 

Calling it a talk,
Saying it a moment,
Did you ever really go through?
No.

 

Roam around,
Wanderlust,
As you state it,

 

Click.
Cling.
Click.
‘At last peace.’
‘Lived the moment.’
‘At cloud nine’
Did you?
Are you?
No.

 

‘Living your dreams.’
‘Following your passion.’
‘Striving.’
‘Thriving.’
Aren’t they too heavy for a phrase?
Yes, my grace.

 

Wandering all day,
Scrolling all night.

 

Tick.
Tock.
Tick.
Does it ring any bell to you?

 

Oh, yes,
Another task pending in a while,
Another list to go through riled,
Another state needs to be changed,
Another level needs to be managed.

 

12 am.
Staring your face on the screen again,
Mirror this time.
Oh, you have got nothing in your eyes,
Neither hay nor straw
But yes, a lot more behind.
A hidden cry.

 

To the mountains

I want to go back to the mountains,
This city eats me up,
I cannot feel my own soul,
I cannot feel my own breath,
The sounds of chaos turns me deaf,
The winds of commotion take away my soul.

 

I want to go back to the mountains,
Far away from those people stuck in cyclic tracks,
Towards those souls which soothe me,
Pacify me with their serenity,
With their depths and profoundness
Far away from monotony, boredom, dullness.

 

I want to go back to the mountains,
To hear my own voice,
Locked in those chambers struggling to set free,
I want to hear it echoing back from the peaks,
Ringing back in my ears,
Making me realize that I am alive

 

I want to go back to the mountains
To talk to myself,
To tell myself that bounds, pain, expectations
Are mere realities that the whole world is suffering from,
Some things which are meant to be there
To add flavor to the savory termed as life.

 

I want to go back to the mountains,
To scream out loud,
To tell the world what I hide in my depths
To open up all my secrets,
To tell all my stories,
To the winds, the clouds and the streams.

 

I want to go back to the mountains,
Because I am spending sleepless nights,
I fall asleep and abruptly wake up to nothingness,
To emptiness filled with insecurities,
Of times that have passed
And the times that are yet to come.

 

I want to go back to the mountains,
To be a child again,
To wave my legs hanging down from the cliff,
To enjoy and frolic around the clouds,
To face my head towards the winds,
And let my hair flow with them towards infinity.

 

I want to go back to the mountains,
To listen to the sound of the winds,
And the music that nature crafts for me,
To lie down and watch the sky grow
As dark as ever,
And the fireflies as bright as ever.

 

I want to go back to the mountains,
To feel the mist over my skin,
To feel the congregation of clouds,
Coming to me, embracing me all over,
Fathoming what’s within me,
And landing me in a place where peace lives.

 

I want to go back to the mountains,
To encapsulate it all which is visible to the eyes,
Either in my words or in my canvas,
To sing them my symphonies,
Symphonies which includes them.
Symphonies which includes me.

 

I want to go back to the mountains,
To just be there for years, for centuries, and for ages to come
And never come back,
To be there at those peaks,
To shine with the sun rising high,
To shine with the moon and the stars.

 

I just want to.

 

Colors of chaos

When she picked a brush to paint,
She has so much on her mind,
But nothing on her brain,
Her hands felt too numb.
Her thoughts couldn’t have raced faster,
Her heart was on the verge,
On the verge, to get withered,
But it held back before it succumbed.
Succumbed to her thoughts,
Cause they were bewildered and confused,
Or to her spirit, which was free, steady
Still waiting for an open path, to get a straight run.
Or to the mighty world,
Which doesn’t allow her to live on her own,
Search her own colors,
And paint in her life, a bright sun.
She has discerned this phase, as it was not new,
She tries to wipe it off,
But the screen is all inked,
With the color that she never knew.
She has never liked the irregularities,
And often she tries to make them perfect,
But this time she is getting no stroke,
No color to complete the painting she never drew.
Oh, never mind!  She has always loved her colors,
They elucidate the meaning behind the things,
Blue sky wrapping up the passion,
Those red petals contouring glee.
Yellow, she has always loved it,
Those bright strips in the boring street,
She often uses those green strokes,
When she wants to get it all alive with that tree.
She has loved those dark shades too,
When she paints those dry branches,
Of the trunk with years long girth,
With its spread loose roots, daunted.
But today, she has lost her sense of colors,
Chaos is not letting her choose one,
She knows what she has in her mind,
But the mere way of articulation is nowhere to find.
She stood in front of her spoiled canvas,
Staring at the weird emptiness as it is akin,
The time ticks an hour,
And she knows, it will take more to think.
It went like two, three and more,
And she kept standing on the balcony,
Her canvas inked,
With the incomplete art undone.
She couldn’t think more,
And there, the winds came blowing in,
It spilled up the sheet further,
Which turned it uglier, more ruined.
With the winds, she felt the urge,
The urge to dip her fingers,
Into the jar of blue,
Which was kept among the tumblers.
She spread it all, each corner, each edge, each line,
From top to bottom,
She took out her wrath in the fixture,
And that was worth the dime.
Her fury, her rage, her resentment,
Which she was bearing with time,
Was all in the sheet that went blue,
As the clock ticked nine.
She knows now what she has to paint,
Her chaos alleviated,
With the unfathomable spirit
The color infused in her brain.
She picked the brush again,
And this time, dipped it in black,
With defiance, she drew those birds,
And a sky which outlives her ephemeral aims.

 

An eternal loop

Don’t wait for me ever.
Don’t disturb the symphony of your life.
Don’t think of me all night.
Don’t remember my chatter in the day too.
I won’t come to you for all.
But I will call you one day.
When?
You may ask me next,
But don’t think of it now,
‘Cause I won’t tell you,
I couldn’t.
Because I don’t even know when.
But I will call you one day.
Which day?
Let me catch the phrase,
The day,
When the world will lose its vividness,
When the stars will subside its shine,
When the flowing water will not make those lovely sound,
When my heart will resign,
When the birds will not sound so good,
When the winds will divert its flow,
When my hair will not float in the brooks,
When my feet will get swollen,
When the blue of the sky will get dull,
When the sunshine will hit me hard,
When I cannot tolerate the heat out of the dark,
When my head will throb and will diverge apart,
When the tigers will get tamed by those monkeys,
When the music will get dull,
When the rhythms will have no melody,
When my words will become hollow, thoroughly null,
When the yellow will not please me, nor will the blue,
When the rainbow will lose its curve and the butterfly will lose its hue.
See I told you.
That I still don’t know when I will call you.
But I will call you one day.
When the moon will not talk with the night and will swallow its words within,
When the droplets will not stick to the ground and run away,
When the trains will forget the directions and rains will forget the play,
When darkness of black will turn white,
When the brightness of white will turn gray.
See I promised you that I will call you one day.
I will call you and will ask you if you know a world so new,
Far away from this whimsical souls,
Having new textures, new hue,
I will ask you to tell me if you know how to go to that place,
You will do some spell and tell me that you still don’t have the way.
But then you will turn a plate which is too heavy to lift upside down,
And then you will say you have corrected my world,
My place from where I came,
My home bearing ground.
And then I will be afraid cause I have left it far away,
I want to go to a new land,
Through a journey which passes through infinite bays.
But then you will sing me a song,
Telling that the world is nothing but a loop,
The threads sometimes are taut, sometimes they become too loose.
But you know that magic which can stretch it all tight,
You will be my harbinger of bliss and turn my land upright.
And then I will deny but you will throw me again to that land,
I will get pleased by the blossoms and smell of the muddy rain.
Within the loop, I will travel again,
And then again we will come to the promise,
Of calling you once again.

Respite

Those rails,
The small gate,
A swing to fling,
That’s all makes her place,
Her owned cage.
She has got used to it since she was a little birdie,
She has started loving it now,
Spending each passing day,
In a fixed routine.
Getting up,
Fluttering her wings inside the cage,
Eating those seeds and then,
Jumping in those small puddles of water,
Which often got filled in the curves of the base.
She has always been a frolicking soul,
Calmness, and composure,
She doesn’t know how these are defined.
However, she knows how to spell ferocity,
Spontaneity.
She is never a soul to be chained,
To be bound to a single place.
She has that urge,
Of playing with the far spread clouds.
She has the whim,
Of dangling the twigs
Make her music through those rumbling sounds.
What she wanted is to own is that place in the far off sky,
Above those equally ferocious clouds.
She has always known that she could tame them.
Spending each day inside those limiting bars,
Her curiosity trailed towards the higher slope.
With days passing she used to think of the parallel world,
Where the boundaries cease to exist,
Where your world has no pain but glee.
One day she planned and left for a stroll,
Peeking outside that rails of hers,
She got out somehow and flew.
She flew through the heights,
Exploring paths and trails,
Embellishing it all with her music,
Screaming out,
Screaming loud.
She has never thought she could fly that high,
She could cry too loud with her spirits,
And get so near towards the end of the sky.
She flew over the fields,
She flew over the sea,
She took rest near the creek,
Sometimes near the beach.
She picked food from varied places
And savored the delicacies.
What she loved is the vividness of the cultures around,
The age old beliefs,
The folklores,
And those new sounds.
She met few companions,
Who shared with her their stories,
She wrote that in her memory,
And kept their images imprinted on her temples.
She has always believed that,
People often meet in journey multiple times.
As when they are introduced to you,
It’s the preamble to the story that is yet to be derived.
She knew she has to return to the cage again,
As she could not leave her owners in grief,
But she took it all,
Lived it all,
As a respite in brief.

Fire and randomness

Dark clouds all over the city today.
Gloomy weather,
It’s so perfect for her,
She chooses the particular club for the day,
On the top of the hill.
She likes the interior and the sitting,
The walls, all painted in black,
The scrappy plaster coming out of the edges,
Of the bricks that were laid so imperfectly, unfitting.
Yes, she has always liked the imperfections,
The unfinished furniture,
The rugged covers of the couches,
The broken lining of the coffee mug,
The torn corner of the menu board,
The slanted lines of the windows and the doors,
The wrongly placed carpet on the floor,
The patterned, torn shirt of the bartender with his blue hair.
Everything is so her, brimming with randomness.
She sometimes thinks,
The only contribution to the world,
She has made yet, is increasing its entropy,
Which she did out of her whimsical actions and ways.
Nobody will know, as she will never say,
She will never reveal her hidden secrets,
Her thoughts, her props, her figures of the game,
She has always followed her own path,
The path that follows through the dungeons,
Through the mystic lanes.
She takes the same place in the balcony,
Where she get to have the clouds around,
All dressed up in black,
She takes out the pack,
And lights the flame.
She has to manage with this petty matchbox today,
As she has lost her lighter,
She grabbed it up from the streets,
Where she walked earlier to get here.
She stills thinks why are they petrified,
When she walked down the lane,
Is it about the dark covering which she wore?
Or the layers of arts on her skin,
Or about her eyes,
Which encloses a void,
Searching for its own depths.
She puts this thought away,
Lighting up a new flame,
She flicks the stick away,
She finds some strange pleasure in that,
Lighting up the matches and riffling them away.
She feels as she is the one,
Who has the power, the control,
She can burn it all
Or stall it half way,
Picking another one, again and again,
Lighting and riffling.
Some matches go far, some lands up nearby.
Fire is her element.
She has always believed,
Randomness and fire,
Isn’t that a brilliant combination to have?
She smirks as she thinks.
The burning stick has the fire for a fraction of second,
But it burns it all away,
When she flips it through her fingers,
Sometimes it blows off,
Sometimes the stick flails.
Sometimes it lands unburnt,
Sometimes turns to black trails.
Fire and randomness again.
She completes a pack,
She can now feed on the smoke around her,
The smoke she has liberated,
With some remains,
Which the weather has added in rage.
She watches her wrist,
It’s time for the game.
The clouds have cleared her view,
The thunders and lightening,
She can hear them fading far,
Fire and randomness.
She mumbles.
In fraction of seconds,
It’s done,
Just like the riffling of the lit stick,
She smiles now,
As what she sees around are all fiery rumbles.
Fire and randomness.
She has done it all again.

Someone

There is this guy in the crowd,
Whom she meets daily,
He smiles with his crooked teeth,
And stumbles down the alley.

 

When she stands at the bus stop,
He leans over the supporting crutch,
And somehow manages to catch the bus,
The crowd stares at him as if they bear a grudge.

 

There is no single day,
When she fails to see him there,
In rains, in summer, in chilly snowy winds,
He struggles to catch the bus, taking him out of his snare.

 

She is now habitual to his face,
And his unbalanced pace,
She sometimes smiles back at him,
Sometimes, she wears a stern demeanor, unusual to her grace.

 

She can’t think of a reason,
What makes this man, so punctual, so keen?
To board the bus and reach his destination,
Struggling with his body, so insalubrious and lean.

 

Then often she switches her mind back,
To the heap of work, to her family, to her life,
She tries to compose her thoughts,
To the journey with hurdles, rife.

 

This chain of thoughts repeats every day,
There are new stories, new gossips, new tales,
But constant is the crooked smile of the man,
Who boards this bus every day.

 

Seasons passed by, so do years,
There in the same cogwheel,
She travels, she walks, she lives,
And the pictures roll as if there is some reel.

 

But, one fine day,
She notices something strange,
The bus-stop scene looks incomplete,
Missing are the crutches and the crooked-smile man.

 

Days passed by, so do seasons,
Without exchanging any smiles,
She boards the bus then,
Wondering about that man, riled.

 

One day she gathers her thought,
And asks people about the man,
The man who used to stand with the crutches,
The man who used to struggle to get into the bus lane.

 

To her surprise,
The people haven’t seen him any day.
Those who accompanied her in the bus for years,
Chuckle, as if she is telling them another tale.

 

They tell her,
That her tales are so unpredictable,
The characters are unique,
And the sequences are too realistic to be a fable.

 

The chain of thoughts repeats again,
There are new stories, new gossips, new tales,
The crooked smile of the man is replaced,
Now there is this school girl who accompanies her every day.

 

Escape

 

“Take me away from here,
I don’t want to live in this nasty place anymore,”
She said to her sister,
But, she continued to cover her up with the quilt,
Both felt the chills,
The running air conditioners,
Or the disaster that numbed their nerves.
She asked the ward boy to increase the temperature,
Intensive Care Unit,
Waved the board outside.

 

She wished if she could grant her wish,
As she always did,
But how could she.
How could she make her disappear,
From this world ,
Where she herself is stuck for years?

 

She wondered if she could have an escape,

 

An escape to the world where still humanity exists,
An escape to the world where they can walk and laugh freely on the streets,
An escape to the world where no one bothers how they dressed, how they acted,
An escape to the world where they are not judged by the freedom of their thoughts against the unjust,
An escape to the world where they do not suffer the critical remarks on their blunt character,
An escape to the world where no one crumbles their dreams with the stiff hammer of realities,
An escape to the world where their bodies are treated with sanctity,
An escape to the world where they are not possessions to crave for,
An escape to the world where they are not mere objects for fulfilling their lust and desires,
An escape to the world where they are not intimidated by the devilish eyes of those hunters,
An escape to the world where their souls are still free and unhampered,
An escape to the world where everyone makes stand towards the injustice,
An escape to the world where they are not questioned for undone misdeeds,
An escape to the world where they are supported in the fight against the people who gave them scars,
An escape to the world where their excruciating pain is felt, with which they suffer, each passing hour,
An escape to the world where they are not harassed,
An escape to the world where they are not raped.

 

She wished, if she could have the one.

 

Covering her up,
She closed her eyes,
Her palms were cold.
Holding them tight,
She whispered,
“Sleep, my love.
We are not cowards,
We will not run,
We will fight.”

Meteor Shower

 
Scrolling her news feed,
She then got around to read,
A line there said,
There will be meteor shower in the eve.
The sky is always her passion,
The apex of her dreams,
Relieving her from worldly concussion.
In her semi-conscious sleep,
She dream of the sky,
She dream of him,
Those iterations enough to turn her high.
They have miles between them,
But the souls were close,
Staring at her screen in a closed chamber,
She craved for covering the distances,
But her apartment constrained.
They were talking then,
From the escape hole, that keep them intact,
He read her mind,
Her thoughts, her hidden enacts.
He asked her to secretly move inside her den.
Close your eyes,
He said,
The journey was about to begin.
She wanted a magic spell then,
And he did it fast,
Taking them to the land of their togetherness,
That was then miles far.
She felt the chills,
They moved on a count of three,
The room slowly vanished,
And they landed in the land of trees.
They were there,
On their countless nights,
That was a dreamland,
With far stretched field and fireflies.
Her urge to lay on her back in the grass was fulfilled,
She smiles,
A sense shivers her till she turns nil.
The vast sky was there,
The ceiling has disappeared,
His magic was true,
She was there with him, and begin the ceaseless stare.
They stared the sky,
The ceaseless meteor fall,
The hands were clutched tight,
The sky started to revolve.
The big dipper in the middle,
Below was the pole star,
His hands curling her waist,
Her happiness is beyond par.
He send her the songs,
Those took her even deep,
To the land where they met,
Where the nights weren’t for sleep.
She felt his smell,
He felt hers,
Though they were miles apart,
The magic traveled.

 

The bird they slew

 

There lived a girl, who once claimed to attain the limitless wisdom one day,
Who, owned the wings to fly through the limitless bay,
To cross the limitless heights,
To possess a palace beyond the skies,
Whose wet palms, never caught the futile flow,
But they were firm to hold her dreams upright rendering a blissful glow.

 

The grip she made to the eternal longings,
To have her tyranny over her future belongings,
She then danced to the tunes,
Bringing along the mob, to live their moment under the moon,
She told them that the moon will reflect the expressions of their own,
On the days of their ecstasy, when they danced, he also shone.

 

The rhythm of melody as it flew with the winds,
The blind too imagined the tale with her taps, transfixed with everlasting grin.
On the top of the tower sits the blue bird, hungry and wry,
The girl gets her grief and drops the crumbles that went dry.
Vanilla and brownie once make her radiant the charm,
Now she can hardly pay heed to the savouries and the swarms.

 

As her father steps in the room, and let her his hours,
She wipes away her drops and the trembling showers,
And knowing that his girl’s tears will never dry,
Transforming his gestures, sequence of escape routes he tries,
To bring back the shine and the subdued glow,
But he knows he is not almighty to stop the unusual flow.

 

For the passage she now has in her journey,
Is, full of thorns, and the game plays of attorneys.
As the night was full of dark and terror,
The blood red faces and the cries of horror.
It was the day for which she had waited so long,
Her dreams and the skies, she owned the stage where she belonged.

 

The hours of toil, she devoted,
To move her waist round the curve as the mentor quoted.
She was a born prodigy, as her grandmother claimed,
Who herself owns the titles and the fame.
Five was her age when she grabbed the title of hall star,
From then her legs never shunned and crossed every emerging bar.

 

The Nineteenth annual international ball it is called,
For every nurturing bird it is a sky thereby stalled,
A plethora of human souls will be there to connect to her moves,
The nightmares of flaws and pitfalls is what that haunts her inner groves.
Her grandmother assured her the path will be enlightened,
When she will be inside the hall she won’t be frightened.

 

And then she knew that the moon reflects her powers,
She looked angelic when she appeared in blue frills with tucked Cronus flowers.
As her hands transformed into rhythmic mystical waves,
The crowd screamed in exuberance and captured the exultant soul, so brave.
With the melody, there come a surge of chaos,
The girl was thrown back with the emerging red too fierce.

 

She succumbed to the glow and warmth of the devastating fire,
There was a blast, and confronting her were the countless diers.
The ecstatic mob ceases to exist,
The moon too now refuses his brightness to persist .
She lay frigidly over the planks of the ruined form,
The cries and howls drained her ears inducing a deafening storm.

 

Her hazel eyes now drowned in the sleep that seemed eternal,
The fire and the eerie tones faded to numbness-nocturnal,
Lying like a lifeless mass in a chamber, she did opened up her eyes,
However, she noticed, the sounds missing were the deafening cries.
Missing were her limbs too,Bursting into a dead sea of non existence,
She screamed with the anguish that her shackled heart drew.

 

She is nothing, but a discarded thorn of the flower,
The one, that once bloomed, spreading its aura, symbolizing power,
Why she exists is the question that tolls?
The withered body is hollow with a drained soul.
The tears she shed won’t rotate the wheels of the cog.
The world that faces her is submerged in dense veil of fog.

 

She no longer trusts the moon, as he cheated,
The news lines running in background add to the fire brutally ignited.
The wrath towards the doers is the flame that has spread through the hays,
How can they remain souls stuck in bodies after the inhumane game they played?
The plays of attorney and the mocking words of wise punishment they blew,
Can never curb the grief of the bird they nearly slew.