Of Solitude and Company

There is a beauty, a quaint charm
To this city that will be
My home for a year of my life.
There is charm in the silent flow
Of the canal,
In the sunlight making the grass glow neon,
In the vintage shops and cobbled streets
That this place is known for.
There is beauty in solitude,
As I walk anonymous through
Hoards of strangers,
And, for a change,
No one spares me a second glance.
It is normal here,
To be a girl.
There is also a certain charm
And tentative prospects of a happy year
In a late-night half-burned egyptian dinner
With three strangers
Who were a little less of strangers
When the night was over.

Giving In

White.
So white that she was sure
If her eyes were closed
She would be seeing
Each capillary
In each eyelid distinctly.
She was overwhelmed
By the white in front,
And finally,
Succumbed to the cloying black
Behind her.
She stopped struggling.
White,
And then too white.
And then nothing.
Nothingness felt soothing
After the the struggle.

Focus

The ground slips beneath me,
And I am too tired to make a stand.
All I can control
Are inhales, trying to make sense
And exhales, of the world around me.
An ache born deep in my bones
Settles over my cold skin.
Heart beats thrum,
Adrenaline rushes shiver,
Flowing up and down my spine.
My life, my senses, my being,
Are all focused on only two things now:
My laboured breaths
And your silent heartbeat.

A note:
I understand how impolite and careless I seem to anyone who cares, when I don’t post anything for long periods of time, and for that, I am sorry. I am sure, though, that everyone knows how Life has a way of seeping through your plans and demanding your energy.

Poet

She wanted to write stories.

She wanted to have such a vivid imagination that she would be able to conjure up even the most absurd of scenarios in seconds, and then express them with strings of words that just made sense.

She wanted to write about girls and boys, men and women, going on adventures, facing challenges, falling in love. She wanted to live vicariously through her brain children, and still let them be their own people. She wanted to give a voice to the many souls living in her head. She wanted to write stories like the ones that made her fall in love with reading.

But she couldn’t. The souls in her head spoke to her without voices, and she was always bad at translating feelings into speech.

She tried. She picked apart each emotion, cut them to tiny helpings, turned them into words, and stringed those words together.

It didn’t make grammatical sense, but it was beautiful, and the souls were happy.

It was poetry.