WINDOW

And sometimes I wonder at my forbearance to do nothing, contemplating on the time that I have wasted I'd think I haven't actually wasted any. No poems generate within my beating heart, no prose finding space within my shady brain, no inch of my open skin seek books and characters engendered are of no interest to me. Sometimes, I just want to look out of the window observing nothing, I don't crave fancy views and the only thing I really can focus on is emptiness. Sometimes, I crave it too much for it fills me with hope of abundance in future.
Sometimes, I look out of the window for nothing.

Image - Pinterest 

WINTER

Sometimes, I feel the need to go out and stand in the cold, to face the alluding mist till exhausted it melts on my burning face, to run with the winds till they try hard enough to catch me. Sometimes, I want to behold the white picturesque in my vision and seal my eyes forever, to let the winter gush infuse in me the crimson that conceals itself from the fading world. Sometimes, I want to breathe in the callous cold till it freezes me from the inside, sometimes I want the winter to be all mine.

Image - Pinterest 

Self Fulfillment

And sometimes there is such sovereignty in love that even if you keep your gifts of affection between your pages of compassion, it won't rot. It will grow as did your love for her and poetry , both making you dive in the mockery of self and yet the sweet pleasures of endearment are enough to guide you to self fulfillment. 

image - Pinterest 

THE BOOK GIRL

" He kissed her, love it was to the fullest of his passion". She delicately rubbed the last pages of her favorite book with her puny fingers. Holding the book close to her bosom with a smile, she bestowed her emotions behind them. Lying in her cozy bed, she expiated the sagacity of the text, as passionately as the character of the book kissed his woman.

She was lusty of books but never of the life detailed. She held her cup, dry insipid coffee pertaining to it and traveled through stories captive behind her debilitated eyes. Stories she'd been a part of, characters she'd played and imaginations she'd suffered at the hands of those mesmerizing books. The very rusty aroma of the text indulged with the fragrance of the dead insipid coffee could let her apprehend the world, destitute. Compositions helped her conceal the dreaded realities.

Was it fiction ? It was, but not for the one who created them. Alas! not for the book girl.

Wagging Tongues

I have read certain male poets comparing a woman's tongue to a dog's wagging tail but how ironic it is that they fear being compared to the anonymous themselves. Such is the art for the wagging tongues of certain poets, Alas! not poetic enough. 

Image - Pinterest 

PARTS

He painted me in jists but I have parts of me, parts of me that are left undiscovered, untouched by the gush of winds. Abandoned in corners of the world, they speak of who I am. Half, un-imagined he left me tattered without them. So I crawl and curl in my own vicinity, I hide my presence for absence left unaccustomed. I conceal the pieces he painted to find the pieces from a writer's mercy. I have parts of me, unanswered. Who made me? Who found me not? Who to blame? Who to find? 

IMAGE- PINTEREST 

AND MAYBE

And maybe I wasn't worth a thousand mistakes that you made but I was nonetheless a little more human than you. And while you were busy being the poet, I fell off the cliff each day to wake the lover in you, yet you travelled emotions through words but never through my heart. 

I turned into the woman who then travelled her own paths.