think-through-pen

[think-through-pen]

Turmoil

There is a silent numbness in my heart—

it breaks, and breaks the reverie of mind.

This living, throbbing flesh has come apart;

the torment has been rough and less than kind.

Hark! the wind is slithering through grass;

Death shall spare no jolly lad or lass.

But soon, this tempest will subside

only to fall anon and rise.

Away, away, my eyes are full!

I need not you, nor words of lie...

No way, no way, can I then pull

away from you. Words don't lie.

Midnight is when this love is ripe,

but fits of terror seize me whole.

The beads of sweat on forehead wipe

away my worries, calm my soul.

My nerves are still, and I am calm.

The peace returned is my balm.

My Taglist: @most-ment @jordynhaiku @thecreakywriter @littlemissjahi @dreams-encapsulated-in-glamour @hauntedandwholesome @sunlovemoon @sweetwarmcookies16 @selene-stories @vixen1012 @distilledmelancholies @aaronawbra @yumiraaa

[think-through-pen]

Mechanical Love

Can I love a being of metal? Human-like but not human— and her voice is not like petal, but some gears made to run.

Passionless her eyes observe me tending to my worldly needs. And her face is also lovely, with her graceful arms she feeds. Treachery is commonplace, but she is not so out of place. Loyalty is hard to find; she accepts me as her kind. Still, the path to love from like must be full of rose and spike. I will take full on the stares, tell them off with, "who cares?"

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[think-through-pen]

Allow me to present a piece of my heart:

sou phool khile hai un wadiyon mein, siwaye tere

- Moin

Translation: One hundred flowers have bloomed in those valleys, except you

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And when Mahmoud Darwish wrote;

“tumhari gair maujoodgi mein sab theek hai, siwaye mere.”

[think-through-pen]

What brought you to the world of poetry I wonder?

If I say that my curiosity for the English language brought me to the world of poetry, it wouldn't be wrong.

But what made me actually dive into this unknown world was a poem I read in my eleventh grade. I was reading a poem for leisure, and a thought came to my mind. "These poets are humans, like us. If they can write a poem, why can't I?" Then my journey began.

I transitioned from nature poems to love; love poems to hate; hate poems to experimental poems; experimental to structured poems; and finally back to love and nature poetry. I am still exploring.

Thank you for asking, @most-ment ! I am honoured.

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The Wilted Love

My love, I do not love you.

Leave me! Let me lose my mind.

I am still and nothing new,

but all the pain, PAIN combined!

I will not be rude, love, twice.

Begone! This hour is not mine.

Have a say? Then be precise.

Be so quick before I whine.

(I know that winter reigns your heart.

But will there never be a sun?

Without you whither shall I dart?

Are...are you not my only hun?)

I am done with loving you.

This love you can not renew.

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[think-through-pen]

The Presence

Standing in the rain

with her beside me,

I smile the length of a rainbow.

The rain falls.

I feel alive!

I sense a circus of emotions,

juggling Joy, Anxiety and Bliss

and nothing falls apart.

A complete man I am!

The rain falls slowly.

Steaming cup in my hand,

the wafting smell is pleasing

to me;

she sits in front of me

with a dazzling smile,

she holds my hands and asks:

"Which warmth is your favourite:

the coffee's or mine?

I kiss her hand;

no words are needed

where actions are loud enough.

The rain descends.

We walk away

to our favourite place;

where we met and sat

and had a chat,

and we are glad...

We laugh at our silly days,

and I find myself pinching her cheeks.

She repays me with a nose pinch.

We both laugh and time

stops

to look at us.

The rain has stopped,

but a storm rises in my heart.

Suddenly!

She grabs my hand and leads me

somewhere where I had never been,

for she wants me to be a part of her

forever.

Note: This is a prequel to The Absence poem I posted yesterday.

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[think-through-pen]

The Absence

Standing in the rain,

I can not forget her smile,

nor can I see it again.

The rain falls.

Why did I hope to be alive?

when all I am

is

a carcass moving like a snail,

but liquifying with each trail

until I am no more.

The rain falls still.

Steaming cup in my hand,

the wafting smell is pleasing

to those who have a heart of joy;

not me, who has had his heart

loved—

shouldered by sorrow, slowly.

The imprints of my lips are cold,

exuding a forgotten warmth

yet, on the other side of the table,

a strange silhouette warms my ears—

ah! The coffee stings my tongue.

The rain falls heavily.

I walk away

somewhere;

where we met and sat

and had a chat,

and I was glad...

My hands are cold and cracked,

but a ghost of hand holds them

and I feel loved in this

depressing rain.

The rain stops.

Altogether.

The mood is worsening more,

and I must go somewhere;

where you are not

but I am.

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[think-through-pen]

Hating Hatred

Dread and terror will be rising

from the bottom of my heart,

hate, and hate will start devising;

all your schemes shall fall apart.

Not one inch of my hatred then

will fill the emptiness you feel,

and love will only count to ten

before your heart can wholely heal.

You stabbed me with a smile so bright

that all remorse was swallowed in.

But I will not give in to spite

and that shall teach you how to win.

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Love at Almost Midnight

I have set my heart on you;

it beats in joyous glee.

Feelings which I can't subdue

are running towards thee.

So hold me like you hold a string,

and mould my heart like clay;

careful be with what you sing,

for it won't beat and stay.

The night is also calling me

as moon and stars have come to see

the reason why I smile at thee,

for I have you and you have me.

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Hello there, what's your favourite type of poetry to write?

My favourite type of poetry is—most probably—quatrain, rhyming. If you were to ask me for flawless flow of thoughts with accuracy, it would be free-verse. I am still exploring other forms of poetry.

As for theme, it is better when I write story-poems, romance, nature and dejected poems.

What are your favourites, my friends?

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Looking Back At Her

Looking back at her, I smiled. It was a broken one—the one you give to your family in the evenings when the boss shouted at you all day. I knew I wouldn't want her to be troubled by the state of my bruised heart. Walking silently, my eyes laden with tears, I felt a lump in my throat. I looked back again, knowing she won't be there anymore. But there she was, standing few steps away holding an umbrella, "Take this with you! I won't need an umbrella because I like to get embraced by the rain when I see you teary-eyed."

"Just go..." I say pushing back the umbrella.

"Not until you tell me what troubles you."

"I am a complete mess. I can't handle rejection; I can't handle people; I can't be decisive; I can't be an overachiever; I can't be alone; I always fall; I always stumble and break my confidence; I always am vulnerable. I am nothing but dust, and I can't be anything more. I feel weightless."

"I know." she tapped my shoulder. "I know that it's you. I love you equally! You are a mess, but you are mine; the world can reject you, but I will not. If you can't be alone, let me through your heart. If you fall, let me pick you up. If you are dust, then I will be the wind. Let's travel together and be the reason for each other's existence. You are not alone, dear love! You are my loneliness, that's why I come to you every time I want to be comforted."

She wiped my tears, and we sat under the bus stand, listening to the orchestra of the rain. I held her hand firmly, and a warmth filled my heart and spirit. She smiled back at me, and I felt that her smile had brought back the sun and the rain left hurriedly, as if blessing us. I cried that day with a smile for the first time.

Ah, this is love!

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[think-through-pen]

Death

And then, I saw nothing

more comforting than the end

that ends all Ends;

it comes slowly, then

suddenly you-are-out-of-breath—

Calm.

Death awaits at the door.

There's no knocking,

but scratching;

growing sharper by the second—

silence then!

Fear whispers in my ear

that death is here.

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Have you ever seen a painted bunting?

I have never seen it in real life. But it does inspire the passion in me; the passion to free the bird in my poems. On that note, a short poem about the bird:

Painted Bunting

I saw a painted bunting in my dreams; a coat of rainbow on its feather sleeps and the eyes the canyon of passion while it dances in lively fashion.

It sings just like I write but with fondness of the heart; I witness his last flight as it perches on my heart.

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What should I write about?

Thanks for the ask! Since you write poetry mostly, why not try a hand at prose, like essays, article, letter to self, etc ?

If you have run out of themes, try combining two (or more) themes and write a poem. For example, you can combine nature with machine: what can you think of? Try weird combos too, like, breakup and the possibility of ever falling in love again?

My personal request after reading your poems is that why not try come challenging poem forms like ballads, sonnet, villanelle, terza rima, etc. ?

You write amazing poems! Keep writing! I hope I got it answered. ^⁠_⁠^ @sweetwarmcookies16

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Flower Blooming

I fain would ask the earth for its love

that sprouts from soils in tender buds,

and sit beside and look above

and wait for them to spring from muds.

What ecstasy could rival this

than waiting for the bud in bliss!

Alert your eyes and do not miss

the flower blooms with morning kiss!

I wish to soak my heart in sorrow,

for flowers will wilt tomorrow;

surely, all my dreams will fade

and dissolve in that tree's shade.

A balance of life and death there is,

and truth resides in nature's law.

A life becomes 'was', another 'is'

Is not it beauty that I saw?

But I can see the petals peep

from their robes, and slowly keep

my heart and eyes laid upon

the yawning of the flowers born.

The sun too blooms from the sea,

altering its robes with time.

The beauty that we find is we,

for we see the truth sublime.

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[think-through-pen]

To Shakespeare:

Love's labour is not lost,

for there sprouts Amaryllis

on the graves of the parted ones

who dream of purple poppies.

And ravens frequent with lilies

in their beaks.

Much ado about nothing;

a string of cries from the grave

sting the hearts of the owls—

ah, that's why they are awake

even at night...

A midsummer night's dream

swept over the starless night—

horrific hauntings haunting haunts of

haunted ones;

nightmares turned to dust

only to rise from their ashes

to haunt the undaunted.

Love's labour did not win,

for there lies beside the lover

the remains of her beloved

beneath the corpses of the leaves—

leaving love lost in myriad mazes

of unrequited cries that would only

return the empty echoes:

another form of nightmare,

O Shakespeare!

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Thank you @annotated-catastrophe for the 500th reblog and everyone who got me to 500 reblogs!

Special Mentions: @friesnoketchup @jordynhaiku @hauntedandwholesome @distilledmelancholies @selene-stories @yumiraaa @distilledmelancholies @ghostly-prompts @hauntedandwholesome

Selling Stars

I sold a star today to the Star People

in exchange for a heartbeat that only

I

could listen.

I got greedy and sold 5 more,

and I heard your voice for 5 long seconds.

I offered another star,

but they warned me about

the consequences of selling any more stars;

that they needed it but not at the cost of

the universe I live in.

I tried selling the moon,

but they gave me the look you get

when you try to sell your soul.

It was the moon I offered

in exchange, I get to see—yes—see your

face—the countenance I wanted to see

more than anything.

I woke up next to you, your hands in mine;

how dreamy it was!

I pressed my ear against your chest,

a rise and fall of waves dance

in my other ear,

but there's no heartbeat from the other.

I felt my own heartbeat,

but—strangely, it wasn't there either.

Who has died? Me or you?

I'd rather that it was me,

for your death would kill me anyway.

Ah, I see, the selling of celestial bodies

was a dream and this is reality.

But then,

who are the two people I see

in the waters of this sea,

my dearie?

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