Indrani Samajpati
Introduction Hey there, I have never had anything to my name except for a birth certificate, ration card, voter ID, Adhaar card, bank accounts and plenty of other documents that are just proof of my tangible identity in this universe. So believe me when I say this, this small booklet of 50 odd pages is my proud, my proof of existence. When the lockdown was announced in India, I was scared frankly, and living alone comes at a cost anyway. So I gave all in to writing my heart out, a poem a day was the challenge. I was alone in my challenge until a friend introduced me to The Alipore Post and from that very moment I had a virtual writing family. I felt like I belonged to something more meaningful and so many of us creating a world together of poems, ideas, thoughts and making sense out of these times that we are faced with. To mark National Poetry Writing Month, The Alipore Post came up with 30 topics to write on. Some topics caught me too excited resulting in two poems. I named the booklet ‘Home’ owing to the very fact that this came to fruition only because I stayed home and I chose to make something out of the time I had in hand. So I am confused, do I really thank Covid-19? Maybe not. I am grateful to Divya Galagali for introducing me to The Alipore Post for which I have so much love and respect and emotions I cannot describe in words. I would also like to thank Indraneel Ghosh for suggesting the title for the book and Sudheej S and Athuljith R for creating the cover design. Thrilled! Without taking any more time, I will let you connect with my poems and please feel free to share your feedback or even drop a hi. My Instagram handle is indranisamajpati (not hard to find, right?) See you when I see you! Until then, Ciao!
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Contents: Introduction
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Topics Gentle / Love, in the time of quarantine
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Patterns / Patterns
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Distance A Haiku on Distance The mammalian things
7 8
Unsolved / Unsolved
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Home The boy who lived in the basement The Flip Side
10 12
Suddenly / And suddenly‌
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Advice / Faces
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Lines / A couple of lines
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Silence / Silence
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Yesterday / Yesterday
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Comfort / Comfort
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Poetry / I am a poetry
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If / If
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Summer / Summer
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Mother Sound of Mother Her lullaby
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Green / Green
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Window Window The ballads from my balcony
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Normal / What is Normal?
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Blind Often I wish A string of haikus on blind
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Fragrant / Medley of thoughts
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Surprise / Surprise
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Restless / Rants of a restless night or many
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April / Oh April, what have you?
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Pause / And then, she paused
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Dream / Can I borrow a piece of your dream?
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Emergency / To human, with love
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Recipe / Let’s bake, a cinnamon cake
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Language An acrostic on Language Her language is not my language
47 48
Map / I don’t need a map
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Goodbye An ode to Irrfan Khan While I hold my last penny
51 52
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#1 Gentle
Love, in the time of Quarantine Yes, I took a wee bit of inspiration for the title. A girl can take that liberty, eh? The news of lockdown scared my wits out last eve. Immediate reaction was to resort to WhatsApp, calls, social media to hear the comforting voices of friends and family. Well, it was all just to calm my unsettling soul, give myself a reason to exist. I stay alone and I am completely okay with that, of course, there are these in-between gatherings with friends, banters in the office with colleagues, visiting the cafes with a book in hand, or simply watching a stranger while I am stuck in traffic on my way. It was lovely, life was lovely. And you see how easily in my last para I used 'was' like life ends here. The feeling of being completely alone, without any real human interaction, for an extrovert, is damning. We react, we emote, we reflex and it is easy to give in to panic, gravitate towards negativity. I woke up in the morning with a feeling, positive. Uninterrupted days to dedicate to me, myself, to write, to cook, to be fit, call those who I haven't in a while, and challenge myself to a routine. Defy the moments that pull you down, give yourself excuses to change focus, move that reluctant muscle, and be gentle, to yourself. Let the feelings that you have cocooned within, flutter. Tickle that warmth in you that has cooled down. Unhinge those wings of thoughts and dreams. Open that curtain, let the speck of light shower on you. Appreciate the fact that you are here, right now, you exist. In Gabriel's words, let the cataclysm of love, rather self-love, begin! Tribute to "Love in the Time of Cholera" Ending notes with a few quotes from the book, my version, to Quarantine: Let yourself be swayed by conviction for life obliges us over and over. Wipe the slate clean, stop resisting the passage of time. Do not let the bitter moments remind you of unrequited love. Allow curiosity and endless fidelity to be the mask of yourself. Think of this time as a grace of self-love, an end and beginning in itself.
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#2 Patterns
Patterns Have you noticed the tiles on the floor? Symmetrical, identical, seamless boundaries. Tiptoeing carefully across one block to another, wouldn't step on the line, no 'coz that would break the pattern. They created it for a reason, right? Walk a certain way, look a different way, you're making too much noise, no don't eat that way. there is no time to whine, no 'coz that would break the pattern. The colour is too bright, the length too provocative, your hair is a mess, you are so evocative, wouldn't build the identity, no 'coz that would break the pattern. You speak too loud, too much, stop the words from escaping, mind you, even your thoughts need reshaping wouldn't question the confine, no 'coz that would break the pattern. You are a distraction, a provocateur, Stealing all the pair of eyes at party, your bright lipstick, such an impure, wouldn't let the skin shine, no 'coz that would break the pattern. Dancing with the wind, wings aflutter, the fire dousing the whole world under societal pressure, expectations, asunder would definitely let it rhyme, yes 'coz that would break the pattern. NaĂŻvetĂŠ withers away, fragility you daresay, take your orders with you, they are ruled out as hearsay, would will our way to your planet, yes 'coz that would break the pattern.
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Ain't you tired, of your biases? of your discriminatory family codes? of your entitlements? of forced physical integrities? would you allow the change now, yes 'coz that would break the pattern.
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#3 (a) Distance
A haiku on distance She walked to the edge of the mortal broken world, became the sunset.
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#3 (b) Distance
The mammalian things Do you miss the human contact? That hug you wanted to shower on a friend's birthday. That kiss you wanted to plant on your niece's forehead. Those arms you wanted to put around somebody & say 'it is okay'. I'd say 'Aye' there is a beauty in the mammalian things. It's as if you could smell their perfume, the detergent they used, maybe there lay a faint patina of smoked cigarettes on their clothes. Dreary as it may sound, aren't our senses made up of this? Do you miss the human banter? To share that wine you hoarded all this while. To show off that new dress you bought, the shoes you sought. To the party at a friends or the gossip during office lunch. I'd say 'Aye' there is a beauty in the mammalian things. It's as if there is meaning to these social gatherings, to feel the feeling of compliments, to feel your own racing heart, thanks to the extra wine you might have drunk. Do you miss the human bond? To open up about that emotion you were holding back. To wipe that tear off someone's cheek or to feel the shoulder tap. To share a good laugh on that really pathetic joke. I'd say 'Aye' there is a beauty in the mammalian things. It's as if you could feel their skin on your fingers, rough or smooth or soft and gentle, and feel the warmth of their eyes on your skin. Ironic, how the roof saves us from rainy days, but the longing is always for the sky! Ironic, how you know the pain of heartbreak, you always want to fall in love! Ironic, how you crave the need to hear voices of another & your own is not enough! Ironic, as much you appreciate the silence, you are made up of noise! I'd say 'Aye' there is a beauty in the mammalian things.
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#4 Unsolved
Unsolved If I were a canary, I would have whistled you a beautiful tune maybe you would stir some of yours too and together we'd croon swinging gently side by side on that branch, under the moon. If I were the sun, I would go against the norm and never set maybe you would be my sky and together we'd sublet a part of you and a part of me to the edge of water, play a duet. If I were snow, I would have embraced every inch of the world maybe you would fight the contrary and together we'd set swirl slowly I would cocoon in the warmth of you and let myself melt. If I were the desert, I would wait to quench my thirst 'til eternity maybe you would become my rain and together we'd drench the boundary create incredible vistas with splashes of colours to watch endlessly. If I were a memory, I would hide you between the creases of my skin maybe you'd loan some of yours too and together we'd begin to write a love story until the creases contoured into chapters within. If I were the reader, I would read this poetry over and over and over maybe you'd hear my voice feebly coming out of that coffee corner and maybe, just maybe you'd read between the lines of this poetic disorder. I am not any of it or maybe all of it, how would you really know, 'cause you never opened your eyes to see what it takes to sow, now you are gone and I am left wondering, did you ever though?
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#5 (a) Home
The boy who lived in the basement Started with drawing lines on it, one two three...twenty...seventy until the day he lost count and importance of days and nights ceased to matter time had lost its essence for him he now scratches the cement off of the floor and rubs into tiny morsels of rice-like size there are days he would not be able to control his ravenous self, hunger is such he has forgotten how he looks like so runs his fingers across every length and breadth of his face, his towering nose, cracked lips only when the fingers reach his eyes he realises the difference there is a hollow beneath them now and he smiles deviously bet you cannot beat the hollowness that has made home in my chest and he would laugh aloud in that dark, cold room made up of four walls, a hollow man, some morsels of cement and dissolve into tears. On bright days he would angle himself to a one single ray coming out of the squared hole high from the wall to his left, in that moment just to be one with the outside world his imagination would take flight find his fragile body loitering the by lanes soaking in all the sun, the air, every fragrance, every death like a lecher he would emboss his eyes onto every single morbid presence on the street the broken signage dangling on the shop at the entrance, in ruins today, result of a bomb that was dropped yesterday he could smell the smoke of its aftermath he could almost hear the deafening noise horrendous sound of people running, screaming but he taps his head, warns it to not wander off he notices a tea vendor, old,
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wrinkles boring deep into his skin every flesh is dangling like that signage but his face was child-like, flames illuminating from it his hands meticulous folding the tea from one utensil to another both of them burnt with time over used, abused he would then lose himself in that warm, rustic smell emanating from that earthen oven maybe take a bite or two of the piping hot bread he would devour it like a lion devouring its prey after a long hunt that lasted for hours his attention will then shift to a group of kids playing football their laughter, ceremonious, filling every void in his and when finally, the darkness surrounds him, would he come home.
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#5 (b) Home
The Flip Side A perfect morning, London Grammar playing in the background, sausages for breakfast, fresh brewed Iced Tea to accompany. Dusting almost done, lunch is already planned for. Some friends to come in the evening, Didi, you have to do some more cleaning. A perfect morning, it's 2 AM, the dripping water creating rhythm, ready with the buckets to fill in, washed the clothes, the utensils alike, heated for breakfast, some leftovers from last night, the slurry lentils to accompany. Rushing to that fancy, new corner apartment, Didi, give me some more cleaning agent. The house smells of euphoria tonight, with Gucci, Armani, and the aroma of candle light. The chicken is char-grilled, wine glasses filled, cheese cubes for starters, mmm, beers are nicely chilled. It's 2 AM, baby, guests have left, Oh, the night was perfect, aren't we blessed! The house smells of jasmine and leather every night, her stale gajra, his day long plight. The wiring is again grilled, will they ever get that lamp post drilled. Little to eat for the family of 4, finished in a blink, a hot evening, is there enough water to drink. Can't sleep with the mosquitoes constant whirring, Oh! It's 2 AM, time for the cycle to begin.
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#6 Suddenly
And suddenly And suddenly, we stumbled into a standstill! Just yesterday we were going about our ways returned from that vacation swiping photos, we clicked from left to right to left oh, the perfect sunset! there, the perfect sunrise! another trip during monsoons been already devised abundant conversations with friends over gin and wine hey, did you listen to the new indie artist? what, you gave that Oscar winning movie a miss? non-stop rhapsody about the city traffic my working hours what a tragic! And suddenly, we stumbled into a standstill! nowhere to go but confine ourselves within the four walls of an architecture we chose to call home swiping photos left to right to left memories of yesterday oh, sunrise and sunset were there all along unnoticed had the birds too for company had to just adjust the focus can hear my heart beat, uninterrupted lub dub lub dub can hear my breath even such calmness tried counting the stars today and I could, surprise thanks to the pollution which was not on the rise I heard the trees concoct a melody or maybe I can hear the silence these days.
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And suddenly, when we stumbled into a standstill we healed a little bit of ourselves all the time spent in hullabaloo now what you are left with is you call it loneliness if you will call it survival you know the drill or let it be unnamed who cares the monologues with the person in the mirror the blank stares the sink full of silverwares huh, the monotonous chores the cake you baked no one to share enough reasons to whine about breathe, take a pause in the process of finding ourselves or not we healed the earth a little bit maybe we let a countryside survive maybe the taste of rain will be a little less pungent tomorrow it was all suddenly possible because we took a collective breath to heal when we stumbled into a standstill!
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#7 Advice
Faces Some white, some dark, some brown, some not. some glad ones, some sad ones, some genetically blushed, some with a twinkle, some beautifully crafted, some with a wrinkle. Some dark and deceiving, some clever and cunning, some easy to read and some are a tale within. Some pale and gloomy, some inked with misery, some are dotted and some clear as porcelain. Have you thought why each of them is distinguishable? Have you wondered why some are not, but some visible? Have you looked closely at the people you meet and pass? Have you tried to read the disguises you come across? Do you try to decipher the secrets of one with the blue eye? Do you try to indulge with the one with no sound but a cry? Do you try to pause and look at the sunken cheek that crossed by? Do you try to hold that eye in yours and ask them why? We pass thousands of people on these restless streets. Do we ever stop, to smile at someone and share that morning greet? We rush to school, to college, to work, to even that night club. Do we rush to pick up the fallen one & ask 'what's up'? Let's try to look beneath that pretty eyeliner or those dark sunglasses. Let's try to look beyond that matte lipstick or that lip blackened with cigarettes. Let's try to unravel the violence of last night from under the blushed cheeks. Let's try to hear the those incessant and innocent screams weeks after weeks. Let's unlock the mysteries. Let's leave aside the masks. Let's go disguise free, and face the faces we see!
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#8 Lines
A couple of lines A tasteless tart an aching heart or maybe a broken start something ought to have kicked it in that feeling of life dying within the storm in the house the four walls shaking those abuses hurled some marks left underneath the eye cigarette burns tattooed on the wrists where lay several lines etched by misery those wicked nights counting, recounting never ending the need to end that sobriety achieving over achieving the applause, the congratulations? makes no friggin' sense bashing, bullying in the school overlooked that prayer in the church overstepped that sleepless, relentless moon and a hungry stomach given up to an illusion the confusion the meaningless elation a lost scoreboard the unheard poetry the loss of a child and sadness divine
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leading to a shady bathroom a kitchen counter an unkempt table a cheap motel just to draw a couple of lines.
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#9 Silence
Silence Can you hear the birds tweet? Can you hear the leaves rustle? Can you hear a child crying faintly, at a distant nearby? Can you hear the rearranging of chairs in the house next to thy? Can you hear the clouds breaking out? Can you hear your own breath? Can you hear your own heartbeat? Can you hear the silence on every street? Lost in the daily noises of our busy lives, amidst the beeping, typing, traffic, and parties, we forgot how small our place in this world is, we forgot how silence sounds like. This is our chance to think and act alone, yet together, in silence, of what were we trying to strive through the baseless political agendas & media bytes, the class & mass divides & the religion-based fights. This is our chance to rise up for one other, for humanity, more so for our next-door neighbour. This is our chance to dust light over our darkened souls. The chance to listen to the silence, to play our roles.
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#10 Yesterday
Yesterday What if I live my today, a blend of sorrow and joy regret and winning moments lost in thoughts thoughts spent weaving words words coming together to form a poetry a poetry about sorrows turning into joy regrets flattering into winnings moments transforming into a beautiful poetry you see because my today will become tomorrow's yesterday a yesterday which will be laid down in the history of my book which some will read some might not some will discover some might overlook lying on a shelf in the library that is redundant today but was yesterday's glory the aisles are lovers' nook today where stealing a kiss in secrecy is a win today soon will lie idle gathering dust and become a thing of yesterday to reminisce, to cherish your body wrapped around me like a warm blanket today will overwhelm me tomorrow linger 'til the knock disappears into yesterday we are but a wrinkle carefully folded in time every crease has a story every line with its own theory of what made yesterday a thing to talk about today a funny thing time is juggling between yesterday today tomorrow the passage is extremely narrow
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a blink of a moment now is touted as past and how doesn't run backward except for in memory a memory of how I lived today in anticipation of tomorrow only to turn into yesterday come the 'morrow.
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#11 Comfort
Comfort She'd always comfort me through the dark, endless nights when my eyes would blankly stare at the socket on the wall where the fused bulb was never replaced or that right corner of the ceiling where a spider had been busy making concentric circles every night those circles grew bigger or the chipped wall next to the Tv where a phone was thrown in a fit of rage and the wall never recovered from it on those nights she'd visit me, she'd come switch off the lights to stop my eyes from wandering but then I'd be left alone with my thoughts in the darkness with nothing else to distract me but there she would be helping me through it helping me piece it all together into strings of words, phrases, idioms use it to construct something meaningful and she'd tell me only if I face the dark, will I know the importance of light! These days she has been my one true companion helped me form a routine to get by every day without flinching on the day one of lockdown she demanded of me to create a memory for myself something I'd cherish when I look back in remembrance or will drink to it when I meet my friends eventually. She has even transformed the kitchen into a gastronomical heaven with tireless preparations everyday running out of ideas for the next day in fact my book shelf gave up with nothing new to offer
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but she didn't. On the deadly silent afternoons when my heart would beat a one too many beats faster she'd calm me down, comfort me and remind me to breathe. It took many years and finally realisation kicked in that I have never really been alone she has always been there for me with me, looking out for me so when I stood in front of my mirror today untangling my shampooed hair I looked her in the eye and thanked her!
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#12 Poetry
I am a poetry If I tell you tonight about my body, would you write the epilogue? or would the waves of each page crush you, until you type out the story, and draw me naked in my forlorn glory? Would you then describe my cinnamon skin, breaking against the sunlight or basking in the twilight? Would you draw my lips on one of your pages incandescent, crimson or nude, the colour, you choose? Would my eyes catch your attention? Would you see the gloom in them, or a silver lining? How would you define my body? Sharp edges or gentle curves, or would you just be prying? Would my trembling hands be noticed, or my rolling tears make a difference? Would you notice my shaking reflection? Or later would you name me a survivor? Would you ask me to change my identity or my rind? Would you, before mocking, put deception out of your mind? Would you ever, though, read beneath the jagged lines? Would you listen to my silent screams and read the signs? Would you still let the misogyny yodel, and wait for the rage to unbottle? Would you retreat your actions? Or would you carry on with your transactions? Would you stop warming my ink for me? Would you let me write my own story? Would you ever realise that I am indeed, a poetry, but I am not yours to write?
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#13 If
If I still wear your t-shirt you know, the dark blue one, with 'no applause' printed upon. Remember, it was your favourite, you bought it from that online store. By the way, I carried it with me when I left, not deliberately though, but it's almost surreal how it found its place in my box of packed belongings. I was regretful at first, of stealing it from you, for I didn't have any use of it, what I'd do. But then there were those lone days, in a new city, a new place. So I'd wear it, 'coz it'd still smell of you, a familiar feeling, to save me from falling through. It would fit on me loosely like you did, I'd burrow my face in it, like a rabbit in its hole. I'd cradle myself to sleep, weeping many nights, cuddling it tight, close. Over a handful of years now, the colour of it has faded, the shape of its neck deformed, there is even a hole somewhere in one corner. I still wear it, hell, I am wearing it right now, in fact, I am writing a prose on it, as we speak. Hold on, don't gloat, its just a t-shirt alright, it doesn't smell of you anymore, its the fabric softener I apply. It shapes teasingly on my being now, a little loose here, a little tight there. It has grown on me ever since, it is mine. It is in fact a sign that I moved on finally. A funny thing memory is, even amusing, the workings of it. The lingering thought though, what if, I wouldn't have carried it along.
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#14 Summer
Summer Every now and then these days, my mind wanders away to a turquoise pool, crashing waves, an azure skyline and you by my side. Lying on the sand, I'd hold your hand, confiding circles in your palm, of illusion in the calm. I'd pick up the phone once in a while only to check if the time is flying by or is it lying by my side too, along with you. Sometimes maybe the waves would touch our feet, a sudden cold sensation in between the bouts of heat and you'd still be by my side. I might turn towards you, watch you, watch the sun radiating your skin, waiting for you to stare back at me, for you to turn to my side. The vast, endless blue blanketing our naked hides, sends warm, teasing wind my away, I close my eye only to find that you are not by my side. The lustre is suddenly tarnished, shadows of temptation fading out, the reluctant silence turning into a crescendo, and you are not by my side. When I woke up today, my body was lying on the bed, but I had left with you last night, I heard leaves rustling, was it not you by my side? I must confess my worlds going amber these days, I am in a constant lucid daze,
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tingling heart, riptides in stomach, my dreams swinging on the hammock, but who is by my side? Oh summer, are you the scavenger of my odds and evens, of my longing soul, peering through the ivory curtain, and is it you by my side?
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#15 (a) Mother
Sound of mother A motley of colours amidst the ocean of moving objects, only to be stopped by the three dots on a pole, red, orange and green. That truck blaring horn in your ears, dreadful lack of melody, That auto rickshaw rhyming tuneless, blasting recklessly, That beast whizzing past you, oh-so-sonorously. A rhythmic cadence amidst uniformity of innocent minds, running across the school playground, stomping their feet. The tintinnabulation of the morning bell, reaching as a faint tinkle at your porch, The soothing sound of unity, from the assembly prayer nearby, The little squads marching to the muffled drum beats. A hive of activity amidst the administration and orderlies, the rising glass buildings, or decorated workplace, or a simple, solid construction. Phones chirping incessantly, to fix that meeting, or manager yelling, Keyboards clacking, the brief to be sent, the deck to present, Heels clip-clopping the linoleum floor clip-clop down the hallway. A melange of sounds, mixed together, happy, angry, patient, passionate, caring. The lecture on not getting up on time, the unfinished homework, a crime, The gasping of breath, running behind my sibling needed strength, The spices crackling and popping, the aroma emanating, the meals to prepare. Of all the sounds this quarantine summer, the most I miss is the sound of my mother!
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#15 (b) Mother
Her lullaby Easter is less than a week away, mother is prepping the oven, for the roast chicken, singing a song loud 'nuf to reach the heaven, calling out for the marching men. The letter had said, 'Ma, I'm coming back before Sunday.' Here she was, cleaning the room, covering the bed with fresh white linen, dusting the window pane. It had just rained, the air was somewhat gloomy, but inside her hearth, brightness had unearthed, 'cause on the morrow, her son would return a hero. She was ecstatic, couldn't keep her calm, her nights went dreaming, and days were soothing as balm. Invited her neighbours even, to spend the Easter drinkin' and eatin'. Her home smelled delicious, fresh bread she had baked, the salad she had made, roast was almost done, but knocking the door was none. She slept on the chair that night waitin'. Since then, three Easters have come and gone, she is still waiting for the door to be knocked upon, the weeks have become a routine, absolutely no change of scene. For her son had said, 'Ma, I'm coming back before Sunday.' A lieutenant had come the first year, with a trunk, with belongings of her son, a folded flag to his honour, some soiled clothes, a framed picture,
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a mouth organ and the holy scripture. But nothing deterred her demeanour, neither the changing weather, nor the clock on the kitchen counter, For her son had said, 'Ma, I'm coming back before Sunday.'
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#16 Green
Green The colour of compassion. Amidst the news of death and dark that surrounds us, lies the colour of a new beginning, even though we are at a standstill, the cycle of life is riding itself along the bumpy road. I see the colour of April 2020 impregnated with compassion, human beings, isolated but together, distanced but connected. The colour of nostalgia. Amidst the epic tales playing on television again, I travel back to my memory lane, the colour of my first crayon box, the pasture that laid before my home, the curtain that hung at my dad's clinic, the veggies that ma put on plate. I see colour of April 2020 mixed with bags of emotions, human beings, living alone in reminiscing, ending and beginning. The colour of brave. Amidst the imposed lockdown, sleepy streets, and the silence that surrounds us, some life forms are wide awake, busy and moving, tending to the ones in the need, risking their lives for the living. I dedicate the colour of April 2020 to the braves of our country, human beings, relentlessly serving, experimenting to sustain the colour of vines in our skin.
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#17 (a) Window
Window Wild wind, trees dawdling away in glory, birds chit-chatting, chirping, maybe narrating a story, a twig snapped here, a branch fell on the debris, a squirrel peeped from its tree hole, admiring the world become a fairytale. Two-legged creatures moving around, some skins white and some are browned, speaking in a mysterious, alien language, tentacles dangling on the side, how do they manage. Plucked the fruits from the apple tree, hatching plans and plots, ignoring the decree, living in cages multi storey, their behaviour, predatory. Built structures with symbols countless, idol, cross, stole even the star, how dauntless. Fighting for land, not even theirs added more symbols and gazillion layers, so much effort spent on enforcing borders, with their wars, destroying the natural order. Powerful beings, got the climate altered, glaciers melting, rains acidic, life faltered, running behind things inconsequential, paper or power or something trivial. A sudden bang, the squirrel startled, locked its eyes with the aliens', it waddled, kept snooping, made a sly innuendo, as the alien hid behind its closed window.
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#17 (b) Window
The ballads from my balcony The windows opposite my front balcony, some open, some close, as if trying to solve a riddle. I could write a verse on the curtained ones guessing what goes on in there. Or play fiddle with the ones that are peeping to conjure rhymes together. On one, I can see my own reflection, flickering in the sunlight, looking back at me, asking what do you see? I see photos clipped with fairy lights, making me wonder what memories hang there. I see a girl constantly on her phone, pacing back and forth, an old woman taking brisk walks, a girl playing with her dancing toy. The first floor is rather empty of human interventions but, I see a cat jumping from the windowsill, every now and then. I find myself gazing at times, early in the morning, when there is complete silence, morning sun about to set in, life waiting to start, children being shouted upon to get ready for school. Oh but wait, aren't we on a lockdown these days? Am I dreaming then? There is no one playing gully cricket and landing Cosco balls on my balcony. There is no rally of cabs, honking incessantly, waiting for its occupants. No one hurrying for office or running back to their homes to get that forgotten tiffin box. My lane looks like its frozen in time and if I could, I would keep it forever as is. And then, I come back to my own reflection and I ask, what do you see? It stares right back into me, peering through my soul, saying "I see you". I see you flirting with the deafening but sultry silence. I find you caressing the silvery scales of the sunlight and, giving in to the prowess of the thickening nights. I see you feel the sweetness in the void and, seeing yourself in things that are not you. And all these are the stories from my balcony alone, I wonder what is yours!
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#18 Normal
What is normal? How much normal is normal? Is the idea of normal, normal? What was normal yesterday is obsolete today, is that even normal? Books to kindle slam book to facebook playground to playing on screens peer pressure today has no limit is it normal or just the idea of it? Relentless efforts to fit in countless days spent, unwritten put them into a prison they don't fall under the law judged on societal standards, won't you call out the Chutzpah? Built roofs over our heads now staying home is tearing us into shreds blaring horns, traffic ablaze days gone in a haze, loathed it all when life's finally at a standstill we are giving in to withdrawal do you see normal? I think normal is all but mystic a mythical figure exists only in our conditioned mind curtaining us from what lays in front is its only design maybe we are alone in our loneliness or maybe not maybe crying out loud today is the mood or maybe I will let the silence brood maybe the thought is normal or maybe not draw the curtains open the window wide breathe in the abnormal let the normal not misguide for you see the idea itself of normal is not normal as what was normal yesterday is obsolete today.
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#19 (a) Blind
Often I wish‌ Often I wish this would all be over, but then a certain German industrialist stole a Jew or two from Adolf and hid them behind employment. Often I wish this would all be over, but then certain Serbian soldiers died in the process of saving Muslims who were to be executed. Often I wish this would all be over, but then a certain mother amidst the Battle of Bulge celebrated a peaceful Christmas with soldiers, German and American, otherwise ready to kill each other. Often I wish this would all be over, but then a certain Sergeant of the Confederate amidst the American Civil War started pouring water into the mouths of the wounded Union soldiers. Often I wish this would all be over, but then a certain community in Chad opens up their homes to the families uprooted by the the terrors of Boko Haram, citing this could happen to all of us one day. Often I wish this would all be over, but then certain citizens of the countries who share their flag colours shared an idea of bathing their neighbourhood in Christmas lights, a symbol of hope to those solo isolating. Often I wish this would all be over, but then thousands across the states in India exhibit acts of solidarity, relentlessly, provides food to the hungry, shelter to the homeless, even feeds the four-legged who are stray. Often I wish this would all be over, but then several billion sapiens work together to distance themselves from each other so the pandemic doesn't get in anyones' way. Often I wish this would all be over, but stories of altruism, time after time, has been flooding my google search bar today so that negativity cannot blind my day.
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#19 (b) Blind
A string of haikus on Blind blind sunny days life comes alive on a rife on the internet blind sunny days isolating together on the internet blind sunny days humanity strengthening on the internet blind sunny days religious blames go on on the internet blind sunny days humanity defeating on the internet blind sunny days pandemic twinning on the internet blind sunny days humanity is winning on the internet blind sunny days life comes alive on a rife on the internet
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#20 Fragrant
Medley of thoughts My skin feels different today a sensation up and down breath rapid, shallow something kept me up last night cannot point a finger to one thing multiple thoughts kept oscillating thoughts that I can describe only via poetry maybe twist it a little wring it until the last drop of water escapes the tiniest part of my indolently swamped mind waiting for a torrential rain to wash away the distant memories of nothingness a river flowing dividing me and my thoughts on the either sides narrow at that bend we reach out trying to hold each other but inaccessible still it's like we are two different entities living in the same body only one could take flight and the other is always stuck inside in the pit of my breast lie unsullied plantations of opaque cities tapping with each beat bouts of colours surround me but my eyes can only see, in black and white seas without shores mountains without snow just black and white no logical fallacies no biases visions of beings in the atmosphere or maybe I could see only the outline
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every bend of the body or maybe they are just the remnants of my thoughts the first light dawned upon me heavy like a carton full of rocks have been delivered at my doorstep I couldn't move it with all my might so I let it lie let the oblivion take control until a mellow breeze enters curtains flutter a little through the sparsely open window takes a few rounds inching every corner of my room like a tailor taking notes of every indent on our body it meets my gaze intently we look at each other uncomfortable in the beginning slowly allowing it to brush through my skin the foreplay begins there is a song in the wind lasts until our legs are entwined and now all I am left with is its fragrant melody on my lips.
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#21 Surprise
Surprise! the poetry prompt today caught me unawares what to write, start from where I had nearly given up hope out of blue got an idea, a scope nothing extraordinary to knock your socks off but I hope your eyes are on stalks not sure if my poetry today will let you do a double take or will raise an eyebrow or two will you still read it for my sake? no, jaws won't drop, you won't jump out of your skin idioms weaved together, do I see you grin? will I knock you down with a feather or will you forget it as a nine-day wonder? I wish to keep you rooted to your spot or will I struck dumb with the verdict you brought words don't make sense, what a waste ideas distorted, there's no accounting for taste don't judge me, there is no credibility gap will you allow the wings of ideas flap? I wish that wonders never cease to amaze me and words continue to fail me, is the thought crazy? for if someday I stop dead in tracks I am not accused of syntax.
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#22 Restless
Rants of a restless night, or many‌ The routine inundates me with the changing moons it flows and takes flight with the bats in the night circling around my consciousness engaging in conversations trying to reason with the present but reasoning has been alluding me these days no, I cannot romance the stars any more or spend moments in soliloquy with the celestial beings the force of gravity is pulling me into a pit, the end I cannot see for it is dark and an eternal silence has surrounded my surroundings the silence though is not silent keeps asking me questions of the violent strikes rained on humanity of the power that muted every curious mind of burning live beings in the camp, or the jungle of silent screams, screaming in the night of the need to believe in a just world only to tame it under the name of Karma and discriminate against the vulnerable and the suffering the dogmatism, the hypocrisy is overshadowing all of internet giving in to envy than admiration the incessant acts of manipulation oh, the hue and cry after, when we chose our world leaders thanks to our political affiliations Black Death, Holocaust, Spanish Flu, or 536 CE touted as the worst years in human history but history doesn't bother me it's in the past, buried well, the present doesn't inspire me either. I am not blind, I can see the positives, but it's math you see, only a greater positive negates the negative
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or two negatives create a positive so I will choose the weak, the bleak times of our time for maybe my thoughts alone can pierce into the thickness of time put together all the negatives against each other put together all our faults, all our miseries and create a batter of positivity, bake some perfect moments roast wholesome days fold the worrisome nights and garnish it with sunshine.
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#23 April
Oh April, what have you? To what do I owe April to? The restlessness I can't shrug off. The silence ready to eat me up. The feeling of forever being stuck. and a million thoughts running amuck. No, I will stop you right there, let's rewind the tape, write April a memoir. April, Aperire, Aphrilis or Aphrodite origin of the name has a few maybe 't is the month signifying sweet pea and daisy symbolising love, pleasure, innocence, purity. April marks Shakespeares' birth, and his demise too a genius otherwise, maybe stole a plot or two but I will remember him for his poetic virtue for he taught us to listen to many, talk to a few. Hitler reminds me of agony, I will give him a pass. Rather indulge in Strange fits of passion by William Wordsworth, the poet who gave Romantic Age in English Literature, its birth April he entered the world, also when he slept under this earth. Remember Noah, man behind Merriam-Webster, copyrighted April 1828. Reformed spellings by removing the redundant, playing with the vowels while bred for bread, frend for friend, masheen for machine took a pinch of denial center, color, plow, draft, among many others, sing their songs of survival. I will also remember April of the year 2020, call it a relic. When we wore masks, banged our plates, burnt our candles stayed home, alone if need be, but fought the battle the month of collective hope, the month of revival. Did you enjoy going down the memory lane? Let's end the poem with a verse from April Song by Sara Teasdale. Willow, in your April gown Delicate and gleaming, Do you mind in years gone by All my dreaming?
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#24 Pause
And then, she paused. Ah, there, the little one, someone even asked the mom 'you gave birth to a girl, are you sad?' Pause. Nobody said anything for a while. Silence broke finally with her cry all distracted, but no one asked why? Life, moved on. Toddler to nursery to primary, life was assumed to be breezy. Hey, you are a teen now, start thinking about your career, society norms you must adhere, it's not the time for you to play with toys no, don't talk to the boys, lower your voice, you are creating so. much. noise. Shhhh, wrap it in a paper or put it in a bag, don't talk about your periods, it's such a drag. Life, moved on. Clenched her in its claws, without time for a pause, or so she thought. Oh! You landed yourself a job, don't do late nights, it's vile well, hope at least the package is worthwhile? Head over heels in love, sublime, life is a poetry, let it rhyme. But wait, get a hold of yourself girl, you are too boisterous, your character, promiscuous. Slap! That should teach you a lesson Shut your mouth, you are not allowed to reason. Life, tried to move on. But she paused (finally), looked back, lived three decades on your set theory I am going to re-write, this cannot be my story?!
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Life, meekly, handed her a ticket not bound by time for she knocked decades down, fought it to her prime to weave her own words write her own story one where her expressions ran freely poetic, sure, but not necessarily rhymes she is writing it for me, for you or may be for a cause because life, had to race to her when she took a pause. Still writing...
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#25 Dream
Can I borrow a piece of your dream? Can I borrow a piece of your dream? Because you see, you and me we concoct different meanings from same theories. While I weave words from the icicles, you from stalactites but we both use metaphors and similes to give definition to the feelings that are buried deep in our cavernous wells we wrap tendrils of life around our fingers and let them blossom through pauses and punctuations. You write haikus about the lover you met last night I write verses on clean and crisp putrid air that won't leave my side. The day we were to attempt the prompt window, you wrote about your childhood spent looking out from them, I wrote about a squirrel who often sits on the branch that romances with mine. The other day you wrote about your english professor who was abused and I got lost in your words thinking I have a same story. Because you see, you and me we concoct different meanings from same theories. So what if I borrowed your dreams and you mine together we create poetry of the wicked witch and the blue skies of soldiers writing love letters with coloured dyes of shadows sitting in disguise. Maybe we write about ideas that makes sense or the magic that is deemed nonsense of dreams that you saw in black and white of dreams that keeps alluding me every night. We are the keeper of dreams, they say we won't let the flame die. Because you see, you and me we concoct different meanings from same theories. So, can I borrow a piece of your dream?
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#26 Emergency
To human, with love Would it take a dam to overflow for you to know that my eyes are trying to reach the shores of your city? Would it take a drought for you to know that the land of my mind is darkened, barren and the oasis lies with you? Would it take an earthquake for you to notice that my dreams are shaken, stirred, broken by the reality of your indifference? Would it take a tornado for you to know that in your madness, in your vortex, you took my world away with you? Would it take accidents for you to know that my crippled heart is bleeding profusely against you, for you? Would it take a fire for you to know that my tattered being is burning with desire only to leave ashes in your flame? Would it take terror attacks for you to know that I am dying thousand deaths in every corner of forbidden cities, scared of you? Would it take a pandemic for you to know that I am struck by an incurable disease, a plague, the vaccine of which is only you?
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#27 Recipe
Let’s bake, a cinnamon bake One sunny Saturday a sweet, woody scent wafts my way I try to sniff and crinkle my airway oh, it's the one that twins with my skin, I daresay. Pull of the universe, if I may my feet ditch me, goes astray lands me at the field of play I gather the ingredients and start to weigh. Set your oven to preheat before the play thirty minutes are enough, almost a cliché, keep aside three tablespoons of brown sugar, chirpy and gay mix it with cinnamon, my main man, here to slay. Let the slippery butter slip in some romance to the foray fold a cuppa sinful sugar, the beginning of foreplay beat them eggs, a couple, it'd never betray all ingredients together, a blinding display. Two cups of flour, sifted to lose the stray adding leavening agent gives volume, said they a dash of salt to which none said nay a cup of sour milk and let them ballet. While the last two verse mingle, you write an essay of the perfect batter that you'd put in the greased tray set your oven to 180 degrees for the payday told you already, thirty minutes are enough, almost a cliché. Warm and moist, the end result a gourmet dust the chirpy sugar and cinnamon mix, sitting gray, slice them warm, let the passion play hope you made some tea for the soiree. Realising only now in my dismay I gave my beloved recipe away.
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#28 (a) Language
An Acrostic on ‘Language’ Language with 26 letters, the one I use to describe my thoughts. Arbitrary poetic knots are often served with a pause. Nomenclatures derived for every feeling fleeting. Graded carefully with adjectives for the crimson evening. Unkind syllables gawking at me, in an endeavor. Attempt the unused ones, will you ever? Gullible it thought I was. Expression is a free form, does it know not?
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#28 (b) Language
Her language is not my language She speaks a language from the family of Dravidian and I, Hindi, termed by fanatics as National. Our nouns, cases, genders, expressions all aghast, but gestures are enough for us for that heartfelt, good laugh. Oh, the gossips she brings from her multiple workplaces, mine are not nearly as funny with lifeless typefaces. But, the timings communicated are always a disaster she'd land at eight whereas seven is what I'd asked for. I think by now both of us have aced miming as an art where she knows her lines and I know my part. Between the utensils clashing and tea gurgling I see her forced smile and sad eyes, unburdening. I picked up a few words from her, which I string in my sentence she applauds me, says your Kannada is better than other tenants. Her language is not my language and mine, not hers but when has language been chained by mortal barriers.
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#29 Map
I don’t need a map It's a beautiful day today, the greens are still dripping wet after the downpour that started midnight lasted long, felt like a lifetime and on days like these I am melancholic I think too much, I feel everything and I realise that my directionless self doesn't need a map for guidance. The lanes leading to my deepest, fondest memories are of my father, my baba and I don't need a piece of paper or an app to help me navigate through his heart, how his child-like behaviour melts me when I take him to shop or how his feet get jumpy at the sight of a sweet corn cart or how he will call me and thirty seconds only it'd last. I stumble a few times while traversing the hair pin turns of my mind the vision gets soggy with watering eyes but a compass is not what I need or help me guide I get lost, sure, in unknown alleys dark corridors, or even mistakenly knock at concealed doors until I find that even in isolation I am with you with minds are at work with a same thought forking into different tracks gallivanting in parallel worlds together, leads me to a question, if Holly had google map would she have ever met Gerry, and then would they have ever fallen in love or known the melancholy of separation, in death and in life?
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I can't think but wonder would we soon need technologies and AIs to navigate us to love to direct us to each other or to point us the coordinates to our hearts?
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#30 (a) Goodbye
An ode to Irrfan Khan My poetry prompt for Goodbye is scheduled for tomorrow you left too soon, the whole world is drowning in sorrow. The internet is exploding, with pictures, video clips, dialogues the cinematic excellence you created, will now be a synagogue. We will visit them when the Monty in us will need a revival or have to refer to Pi when we are stuck between choices, in parallel. Your time was short on earth and you made every moment of it worth from the letter writer in Salaam Bombay, to be later awarded as Best Actor. I will always marvel on how you could bring ingenuity time and after we loved you as Paan Singh and your Hindi Medium was a riot of laughter. Though, my favourite is Saajan from The Lunch Box and will be forever for the sheer simplicity you brought on screen, oh, what a pleasure! I could have filled this poem with a dreamy caricature, metaphors and similes but I've lived with you only through fiction, my goodbye had to be one like families. My poetry prompt for Goodbye is still scheduled for tomorrow but you beat me to it Irrfan, so I'd simply had to follow. Maine dil se kaha, dhoondh lana khushi, nasamajh laya gam, toh yeh gam hi sahi RIP Irrfan Khan | 29.04.2020
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#30 (b) Goodbye
While I hold my last penny‌ From that small town to the city where I live in, now. From the doll I couldn't buy to the things afforded, now. From being stopped for that movie with friends to watching them alone, now. From the banters with dad to the loneliness that surrounds me, now. I have fought my way up to arrive in the now. The daily struggle to reach school, the competition to be on top the subject I could have chosen, to the job that I got to the love that was broken and the time spent in dark spots. The race was always on and still is now. Feels like a lifetime is spent on chasing lost love, collecting tangibles, building confinements, indulging in online bills. So I stopped running, took small steps to enjoy the ride I am on. When life brought me pandemic, I joined the poetic echelon. I rhymed in some, some bled in free verse the half-baked haikus screaming to fare well. The restless days found solace in my citadel of words can't be broken, not a mere house of cards. I ask you, oh reader, before we let the noise take over before we realise the world ain't all kosher let's tiptoe together and dance under the moonlight let's lie on our backs and point out the stars dangling from the sky let's fall in love and romanticize the journey let's stop hoarding until that last penny. 'Coz you see while I hold mine and look back I do not want to slip into existence of what could have been I would buy that doll I couldn't, watch that movie with someone read poems to remember the most beautiful April that's gone when the weather was shades of crimson & I soaked myself in cinnamon so I could open the box of memories & smile at the goodbye when I am done.
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