Constructions and doors.

As the demolition crew comes near
Hold your breath
Let the walls crumble one by one.
Let the rooftop come crashing down
Let it rain splinters around you

Sit on the grass cross legged.
In your best Sunday dress.
And watch every second of it.

Don’t mourn the stained glass window
Don’t mourn the pictures on the mantlepiece.
Don’t sigh at the remains of the living room sofa
Don’t remember the taste of the cakes of the erstwhile oven

The noises in your head will grow louder by now
And the goosebumps will make their way out on your skin
Sit still and don’t close your eyes.

No one needs to see the breaking down in parts of you.
No one needs to know that your skin feels alien now.
No one will notice that everything is gone but the door still stands.

So open that door when you’re alone.
Snuggle into the bed that remains
And then when the world sleeps peacefully
Thinking that nothing ever fazes you
Let the tears come. Let them flow.
Sing the ballads that your heart writes
Question everything and everyone.
Bite your lower lip till it bleeds

But.
Remember to sleep
Remember to wake up
And
Remember to walk.
Everyday.

A free bird with clipped wings.

I’ve always seen feathers.
Strewn about,
Floating in the air, 
Bound to dreamcatchers,
Dangling off my own ears
And sometimes as a quill. 

For all the times they touched my face
I never thought about the birds
never wondered about their flights of fancy
While shuttling away on one of my own.

Then, one day, in the same way that sunscreen taught me,
I encountered a bird with clipped wings
It seemed to be happily hopping about.

I held it, with delicate care, and
Asked a politically incorrect question,
Just as carelessly.

‘Don’t you wish to fly?
Don’t you wish to be in the sky?’
 
It cocked its head,
once to the left,
And once to the right,
It looked at me intently,
And then at the chains on my feet.
And said,
‘For exactly the reason you don’t run, I don’t fly.’

I walked away with a clang,
Slow, and cumbersome,
quite like how I felt,
I looked back
to watch it looking at the sky,
Gazing at the blues and grey reflect
In the puddle it splashed in,
Nearby.

(The title was the trigger. The muse was amused.)

Language.

I want to explain myself away in punctuation
Maybe dress myself up in sentence constructs
Perfume myself with the remnants of poetry
And dream about the words that make my fingerprints
Because
I am nothing but the language I speak
No more than the syllables I hum
Hoping to freeze myself in eternity
Via an idiom.

the answer.

they think questions of love have answers,
they search high and low
they scale mountains
they pray for thousands of years
they rip open hearts and search
they collect tears and analyse them
they land on the moon and walk
they go on blind treasure hunts

they think questions of love have answers
they forget,
the questions are the answers.

Finally.

Meandering on that starless street
Spinning around on an axis of my own making
Looking for those chains that comfort me
The darkness was starting to feel familiar
The melancholy seeping into my bones
Death sat next to me and cafune
I fell asleep.
Finally.
And I dreamt of you.
I lived my days with you.
I made a life with you.
I decorated our home.
I cooked food that you liked.
And you sat
Looking at that empty space
Next to you.

With this, I thee w(b)ed

They said his chains would never let me go anywhere
They said his darkness would make me go blind
They said his barbs will cut into my skin and leave scars
They said he was broken and my hugs couldn’t fix him.

I disrobed and stood naked in front of them then
They feasted their eyes on my disfigured soul
They marvelled at my torn breast and the pumping heart peeking out
They pawed and touched my naked thighs and tried to create a thigh gap
They licked the rivulets of blood from my arms and my forehead

And they said,
we now pronounce you man and wife
Together in happiness and strife
Locked together in a death embrace
Tear each other or live with grace

I collected my robes and went to the bed we shared
He was waiting
Because that’s what we do
Wait for each other to become unbroken and complete
And create love that we understand.

Call this a ballad.

I looked at him and wondered

All these inches neatly stacked  on top of each other

Did I say neatly?

No not neatly, a little misplaced some of them, like building blocks.

But I digress,

Inch upon inch of perfection.

But wait perfection is boring. And he is not.

He is delight in a frame.

He is a hug in a bubble.

He is faulty perfection.

He is an oxymoron. And sometimes just a moron.

I can’t wax eloquent much about him because an inflated ego is an affliction that we are trying to get him rid of.

Why don’t they have those rehabilitation centers for egomaniacs?

I would give him a birthday surprise then.

But I think I am the ego antidote that he really needs

Quite like, batman. The hero that gotham needs.

I am the hero.

And he is my poetry. My flow of words.

So you know when the words stop. He is being an ass.

Why does this sound like I am not really saying nice things about him?

Because he laughs and smiles more at the not so nice things than the nice ones

And what’s not to love in a guy who relishes your meanness more than the lovely dress you pick out for a date

Who makes you sharpen your wits rather than file your nails

Who loves the fact that your hair is messy

And that you crack dirtier jokes than him.

See, I determine not to get carried away, but he always carries me away

And so do my thoughts,

When my mind defocuses from the world and focuses on his inch upon inch of perfection.

Which is not perfect.

And that makes my thoughts a tiny castle of contradictions.

Just like him and me.

Me and him.

The two of us.

 

Here is me reciting the lines above. https://soundcloud.com/tanzila/call-this-a-ballad