Writer's Block

Since I've had one for the last many months

I choose to write of it

Hoping it breaks this insane cycle

Where I sit at a desk and my brain screams

Only to come up with blank pages

As though the inkpot of my feelings has dried

It has dried and hardened, not diminished

Making it toxic as it sits inside

The first few words come up to my throat 

Like the bile I feel every morning when I wake

But just as I gulp it before I puke

My backspace kills the chains of alphabets

Even now, I sit here with dwindling thumbs

Staring off into space after every line

This poem has literally no reason or rhyme

As someone who is supposed to have a way with words

I seem to have lost mine

I wish to end the poem abruptly

Because that has been the flow of my thoughts lately

They begin with a hope and passion

And then

Time Travelling

I am stuck.

The fabric of time has wound itself around me
I stepped in, mesmerized by the colours
And now

I am stuck.

Taped to this tapestry
Sewn-in which are tales of my history
Of what little is left in memory

I am stuck.

On a day of the past
Sitting in front of a little television
Now things get a little fast;

The television shows
With all the blows
The Contra game
Mario jumping into his fame
My father
My mother
My family
On the carpet giggling
Cutting pictures together laughing
The trees
The Bees
That bit me too often, alright
The colours are bright
As we paint a pot
The winds outside carry shades of hues
Painting the world, a colour other than the blues
My room with fairy-lights strewn
Glowing stars on the roof
Board games
Bored games
Everything

And stop.

I am stuck.

Like a cassette stuck on the same song
Nostalgia;
That has lasted too long

I am stuck.

The winds just carry blues and greys
These days
Time is now just a blurry haze
Passing, as I sit and gaze

I am stuck.

Of What Was And What Is

Loss is like taking off a ring you've worn for a long time

Your finger still feels the weight of the gold band which isn't there

Your hand still goes towards it to twist it around the finger in nervousness

You look at your middle finger again and again seeing the lighter part of your skin, the only trace of the ring that is left

It leaves you disoriented,

To not have something which you clearly feel is right there

Loss is like visiting your favourite restaurant's shut down building

You're overwhelmed with memories

You remember every table full of chatter

You remember the wooden doors that opened to another world

The familiar scent, the lights, the decor
Warm, lively and alive
And you smile from the feeling

But nothing is there

Here lies a barren building
Cold, lifeless and dead
With only memories haunting the rooms 

Like the ghost of what was and now what is

Taking your smile away and replacing it with shudders

The building is still right down the street
( The room is right down the hallway )

If you listen closely you can hear the chatter
( If you listen closely you can hear him calling)

The windows are intact, giving you an insight into the past
( The pictures in the frames are intact, giving you an insight into the past )

But nothing is there

Here lies a barren building
Cold, lifeless and dead
With only memories haunting the rooms

Stomach It

Look at the blood on your hands
The dark pigment slipping through your fingers
How badly do you wish your body were a jacket you could slip out of?

Does it feel good when the blade of your tongue
Cuts right through skin?
Do you taste the metallic taste of the liquid?

Slowly
Methodically
You slice every word to hit a mark

Push the buttons
Pull the levers
Perfectly

Twist the mind
And hence mangle the body
Slow dancing
To the ballad of abuses hurled
In the blood bath

Does the guilt of what you have done ever get you?
Catch up to you while you run around gas lighting lies?

But remember,
Just when it gets too bad
And your insides can't hold the gore
Of what you've done
Stomach it.

The Art of Taking Care of Flowers - Part 3

//The Thorny One//

First step: name it.

The flowers in this plant grow once in a blue moon

But the spikes coming together 

Look no less than a galaxy of stars

This one doesn't grow with daily sips of water

Or the manure you put in the soil

The Prickly Plant grows out of the magic of love

Take a paint brush,

One that you can twirl between your fingers,

Dip it lightly in water

Cleanse the green between the spikes

Whisper happy thoughts 

While you gently rinse it out
Let the sun softly kiss 

Ensure no parasites invade its home

It is a welcoming plant 

But you are the guardian

Final step: admire it.

//Some actual helpful gardening advice with a dash of poetry. For Part One click here. For Part Two click here. //

The Art of Taking Care of Flowers - Part 2

//Potted//

Touch the soft petals
Close your eyes
Feel the energy of the plant

Clean the leaves with a magic potion for shine
( Mix in two parts water with one part milk )
Wipe the stem gently with water
Treat the plant like a child on the brink of growth

Give it a sip of water everyday
Without fail
Turn and mix the soil
Feel the damp cold earth in your palms

Put manure near the roots
( Twice monthly )
Fill the water till the brim on these occasions

Tell the flower how well it is growing,
Better yet, give it a nick name,
Tell it you're proud and you love it,
Tell it your secrets, they're very good listeners.

Sniff the amazing scent
Close your eyes
Realise the life you have grown.

//Some actual helpful gardening advice with a dash of poetry. For Part One click here. For Part Three click here. //

The Art Of Pressing Flowers Between Books

Did you read a book you loved? 

Are you still hungover, intoxicated by the masterpiece of literature that it was?

Are you still under the spell of the words that told you a story unlike any other?

Walk out of your home, close your eyes and recollect everything you loved about the tale. 

Relive the pages that you had felt between your fingers. 

Now look around. 

Do you spot a flower that reminds you of the words that are still fresh in your mind? 

Take the flower in your hands.

Inhale. 

Let your mind entwine it with the story. 

Feel the petals like the pages. 

Let the flower accept the story.

Open the book.

Put the flower in gently.

Does the flower fit in with the story? 

Does it signify everything the book stood for?

Close the book softly and press the edges together. 

Let the story accept the flower. 

That is the art of pressing flowers.