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Whispers Of A Wallflower

Ramblings by someone who is made of perfections and imperfections, dreams and excuses, and smiles and scars.

I’m Stronger Than You Think I Am

Image result for girls alone walking

(I)

i could see in the depth of your eyes

shades of all the cities

i ever dreamt of traveling to

but little did i know of

the lust that lurked beneath all the hues

not just the lust to make love with my body

but also the one to make love

with all the pain that would wreathe me

when you would drift away from me.

(II)

you left me in a corner of the street

alone, without your arms

to shield me from the 3:00 am cold

awaiting to see me crumble into ashes

from a distance, seemingly far away

but close enough to witness

my disintegration and rejoice

and yes, i did crumble

but you never knew that

i was a phoenix

which would rise from its own ashes

into life anew.

(III)

you were pretty darn sure that i would

spend days, or maybe, months together

locked up in my room, crying

as though the whole world

shattered apart-

which was not far from being true

’cause our love meant the world to me-

and i cried, cried, and cried

until i realized that

pain was a certain sort of pleasure

and that is how i turned

into a masochist.

(IV)

i was a garden of experience

before you walked into my life

and walked out

as quickly as you came in

hoping to turn me into

a graveyard of memories

but oh darling! don’t come back

expecting to see the pyre of my happiness

’cause i’m still a garden

green with even more experiences

and buds of strength, which are halfway

into becoming flowers that i can

braid onto my hair.

-Miss Misfit-

 

Eternity

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And you thought 

That I evanesced 

But you know what 

I’m still living 

As a soulless creature

In the spaces

Between the seconds 

Stretching the gap 

As far as I can

So that he would 

Experience love 

For a little longer 

From the book that cradled 

My poems and

My soul. 


I apologize for writing something as senseless as this one. And my excuse (although I hate giving excuses) is that when you have a terrible writer’s block and an idea floats past you, you have two options: to clutch it or neglect it. And I chose to clutch it.

                                                                     -Miss Misfit-

Dear Writer

Dear writer who suffers from chronic writer’s block,

I heard your conversation with some random person, and found a particular line very interesting. The one where you say that ‘you are someone trapped inside your own brain for most of the time’. The essence of what you said did strike me. But you know what, apart from you, there are like thousands of people (including me) trapped inside your brain. Incarcerated in a dilapidated corner of your brain. But since each and every one of us suffers from Stockholm’s syndrome, we can’t suppress our voices anymore.

You carried us in the womb of your imagination, birthed us, and nurtured us. Our stories were like tiny secrets you treasured in the warmth of your heart, but as I figure it out, it was too warm that all of our stories thawed away. And then you pushed us all into this blank and black space of your brain, turning us into people without a story, without a life. We sit here-wailing, whimpering, whining- as you loll in the couch, deaf towards our cries. We occasionally landed in your nightmares and daydreams, imploring you to fill up the voids you have turned us into. But you were blind towards our pleas.

And so we are here, in this abandoned nook. You have locked us in here and hurled the key away. The termites of neglect are feasting on us. We tried to battle but we have relinquished. Now that we are locked in and are slowly vanishing, we are trying our hand at one more request to you.

Let us free. I know that you’ve tossed away the key and hence it’s difficult to release us, but if you have lost that key, why don’t you consider about creating another one? Forge the key with your thoughts. Unleash us. Paint us with your creativity. Fill in the blank spaces you’ve dug in us. Let your fears dance with us and your emotions to croon with us. Allow our stories to cascade down the nib of your pen into the paper. And permit people to read those papers. Wave the green flag when they try to climb up and live in this world you have made for us. Let them feel. Let the little girl fall in love with the knight in shining armor of the story. Let the teenager learn a little lesson for his future through the boy in your story. Let the girl in her twenties who expected the most colorful phase of her but ended up hugging her knees in the corner of her room find the glow of hope through some lass in your story. Let the middle aged man who is busy climbing the corporate ladder feel that he should slacken the tie and go play with his little ones for a while, after he reads about such a man in your story. Let the old woman snuggled in her rocking chair think about how even she can try new things before the evening of her life draws closer, like how the grizzled, wrinkled, and bespectacled lady in your story did.

Only you are the one who can make all this happen. If you push aside all your laziness and self-undermining, you can extricate us. You can make us beacons of hope for someone or a role model for the other.

And before I wrap it up, let me say you this:

You can either kindle the lantern of your dream or you can cradle your excuses. But you can’t do both.

Love,

One of the many people confined inside your brain.


This write-up was selected by The Anonymous Writer You can pay a visit by clicking here

 -Miss Misfit-

Of Love and Seasons

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On a midsummer morning
In a not-so-crowded corner
Of the cafe
Was the first time
I laid my eyes
On her winsome visage
And the first time
I felt my heart flutter
As love seeped into me
From the ambrosial air around
Like tea oozing from a teabag
Watching the way
Sunlight dissolved like sugar
Into her coffee brown eyes
And the way it glinted
In her raven hair.

On an autumnal afternoon
The sun veiled
By the fluffy clouds
With raindrops beating against
The window pane
Was the first time
I wrote poetry
Limning about how
She paints a ray of sunshine
All over her face
And then oscillates between
A grin, giggle, and guffaw
Whilst walking through alley
Lined with tress
Painted in amber and umber
With a bunch of her friends.

On a vernal twilight
With a pink hue
Tinting the sky overhead
The azaleas around
And her cheeks
Was the first time
I told her that with her
Forever won’t be too long
But without her
Even a second will be an eternity
And the first time
Her fingers intertwined with mine
As she bobbed her head
And curled her lips
Into a coy smile
Flashing her dimples merrily.

On a winter night
When tranquillity blanketed
The whole of the town
The inky sky sprayed
Flakes of snow
And a tiny heap of ice
Mounted on the window sill
Was the first time
I felt the warmth
Of her arms
Woven around me
Her head
Buried in my chest
And the first time
I realized
The ambit of love.

P.S- That image on top was my try at blending images. My apologies for inserting it.

-Miss Misfit-

The Light Of Hope

 

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When the cuckoo in the clock popped it’s tongue out at one, I was still staring at the vastness of the sable sky.
I had my eyes glued to the sapphire sky, slowly giving way to darkness. The way how sun slowly sunk down into an invisible realm of his own and the moon appeared with a fresh coat of silver was something that always captivated me. Sometimes I wondered whether the sun and moon were lovers- the sun disappearing to see the moon grace the velvety sky and the moon vanishing to see the sun lighting up the whole damn world.
And even as the needle in the clock keeps swinging, I don’t feel like taking my eyes of the magnificent display Mother Nature has woven up there in the sky. The disc of moon glistens- the halo, her spotlight- amidst a splatter of a million stars which seems to be like diamond dust or maybe beacons of hope suspended in the inky sky, for many broken people like myself.
And as the thought of myself being a shattered crosses my mind, a sigh escapes my lips. It’s been too long. A corner of my lips which always touched my ears, now seems to have forgotten how to smile. Oh! I am sorry. They do create a curve, turning into wry smiles each time I think of myself as a dying wreck. But those Cheshire Cat grins, will they ever return back?
As the rain starts to shower down, a huge chest of memories unlocks itself behind the bulge of my eyes. The sweet ones on roll first with the bittersweet and bitter ones making it’s way in gradually.
Ma, I miss you. It’s heavy emptiness. A life without you is like a garden without redolent blossoms. How can emptiness be so hefty? I don’t know. This feeling is inexplicable. The least I can do to explain what I’m going through is to say that a zillion knives are pricking my heart, all together. Even that sentence doesn’t capture my feelings properly. Like, the 26 alphabets and the million plus words in the English language are insufficient to describe my present state.
Ma, your euphonious voice still echoes through my hollow bones- the very same mellifluous voice which lulled me off to sleep when I was a kid and even throughout my growing up years, when I dashed into your room saying that I’m scared: fear of ghosts, fear of exams and fear of many other things which kept consuming me at different stages of metamorphosis. The scent of your perfume still lingers through my lungs. The warmth of your uncountable cuddles and the tenderness of the soft kisses you planted on my brow, still stays alive in my cells. The heavenly taste of the myriad dishes you made still satiates my taste buds. Yes, I’m still breathing because of the infinite memories you weaved in the patchwork of my life.
Sleep has eluded me many moons back, Ma. The moment I shut my eyes, your lifeless body flashes in front of me. That deadly day which I wish to forget keeps whirring in the chambers of my chest. Now all that I can do is to keep staring at the blanket of sky, wishing for you to emerge out from among the scintillating stars like how it happened in many of the bed- time stories you narrated to the five year old me. I know it’s impossible, but Ma, as you always said, hope is the only anchor to an almost defunct soul.

                                                               -Miss Misfit-

Ephemeral And Eternal

 

Love is Ephemeral, but the pangs of pain that follows it is Eternal. 

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-Miss Misfit-

Unrequited

A male figure praying

That night
She seemed
To be everywhere –
In the poetry
That streamed
From his soul
To the nib of the pen,
In every word
Within the crumbled papers
Strewn all over the floor,
In the mellifluous music
That wafted
Through the air,
In the steaming coffees,
He sipped
Every now and then.
She even left
Pieces of her
In the spaces
Between each second,
In the halo
Around the moon,
In the stars
Dissipated in the sky,
In the droplets of rain
Splashing against
The rusty windows,
In the fragrance
Of the fresh blooms
Outside.
And that night
She seemed
To be everywhere-
Everywhere except
Of his heart.

-Miss Misfit-

Oh! I Wished


Oh! I wished

A void swelled

In the deepest cavity

Of your heart

When you hadn’t heard

My syrupy voice

For too long.

And to fill up

That empty space

You would come to me

On bended knees

Pleading me to chant

Three candied words.

*

Oh! I wished

You would be

Chilled to the marrow

‘Cause of the winter

Inside you

When you hadn’t seen

The curve of my lips

For too long.

And to feel cozy

You would come to me

Imploring me to cuddle you

As a cocoon of blankets

Didn’t warm you.

*

Oh! I wished

Melancholy whooshed into you

Through every pore

On your skin

When you hadn’t read

My scribbles

For too long.

And to wipe away

That miserable itch

You would come to me

Begging to write one for you

And then you would read that

And feel like an exponent of infinity.

*

But these were mere desires

Tugged in the chambers of my chest

For, to my naive eyes

You seemed like a painter

Splattering a million shades

All over me

But for you

I was just another canvas.

   -Miss Misfit –

 

 

Flechazo.

image

Komorebi – The sunlight that filters through the trees

Meraki- The soul, creativity, love put into something


The first time

I wrote a poem

Was when I saw you

On the forest floor

With the komorebi

Kissing every inch

Of your skin-

Your hands

Weaving wildflowers

And your lips

Softly humming

A tune that I

Desperately wanted

To get to know-

You, yourself,

Were a wildflower

So unapologetically

Herself.

The first time

I saw you,

I saw poetry-

The most beautiful one

The universe

Had written.

*

You were weaving

The wildflowers

With meraki

And I was standing there

Gazing at you

From behind a tree

Its emerald leaves

Stroking my face.

Your mellifluous voice

Filled the air

And soothed my ears

The way a nightingale hums

A welcome note

To weary travelers.

The first time

The magic of words

Whirled in my mind

Was when

Your euphonious voice

Brushed against my lips

And pasted

A honeyed kiss.

*

You breathed poetry

Into my lungs

And rescuscitated me

Back to life.

I will write till

My dreams

Collide with your reality.

-Rupali and Adhi

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