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Showing posts from 2013

Needy girl's love poem

A girl she needs, she just needs, knows not what, She dreams her needs are her love, she weaves her dreams, but its actually a mess in her head. Its not love, its just a need, to complete her life, a temporary love, she mistakes her need for love, she wants to hold his hand, not in love, but because in need, You will see her building castles in clouds  pregnant with rain, you will see her closing  eyes and weeping silently, oh she writes poems dedicated to love, but its not love, its need, She is there in her jungles of doubts and despair, where she leaves a trail of broken dreams and expectations, No, it just a need, disorganized feelings, born out of habit, born out of society, May be she knows that, its just a need, her temporary love with fade away with time, she will bleed then in her heart silently, will wipe her tears, move on again, To find a new need. May be she knows this, she is her own soul mate, she will tear herself into tiny pieces

Without title...temporary pause

A song/poem/prose poem without a title and without a flowing line of thought. Unchained thoughts, hanging somewhere in the mid air of my mind, finally finding its way onto the blog.. Yes,Sylvia writes this one the title doesnt match with the poem but words need to be told, with title or without title so here it is.. empty heart empty spaces empty room, empty shelves, memories still filled with past, but dry parched lips of love and lost time, and memories stinging like the hot summer sun, trying to create memories which will not hurt, they sooth my heart, like the chilled glass of lemonade, but still spaces which are empty, dry land of the soul, where the heart silently, tired drags, a hope raises its faint whispers from the dark into the light, Amen, here i come dear life, here i come

memories in a poem

May be this is not a appropriate title, or may be it is. This poem is dedicated to my grandmother (my nanima). I have a few handful memories of her, and i want to write them down, so that i can never forget it. Just something concrete, like carved on a stone. Because on days, when emotional turbulence in your life takes you for a long ride, you get these thoughts, that you will go insane, your memory will lose you & you will get lost somewhere between finding your life again. And that is why i want to record these memories. My nanima is very much close to my heart. But back to happy thoughts. From what i remember, my nanima was a very beautiful woman. She gifted me my first purse and i remember that there were always chocolates in her purse. So here is a prose-poem for her. PS :- Big thanks to SM for checking the poem. Heart you girl. Did my grandmother cook anything ? I try to conjure up her image from the hazy memories I have and

Poem at work

 Poem at work  This is what i do, when i am not working,writing lines, writing a few more lines which make a poem. What do you do when you are not working ? Writing frees me, i am in a trance and i am floating above my mundane life and watching myself writing a poem on a excel sheet and sometimes (this is confession time, i doze off at work). I use "corporate resources" (adapted from George Saunders) to write a poem. And when a poem is finished, i feel like i am out of a different world. Back in the same old life, waiting for the clock to strike five, so that i can pack my bags and go home. i was listening to this song writing this song- Cigarette duet by Princess Chelsea   till we meet again, my far, few and dear readers, i love you all. Poem at work  she posed, then closed, opened to let the world in, shy again , she doesn’t want anyone to read her mind, to take a journey into deep labyrinths of her mind, to take a tour

A long epitaph

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This might be the longest epitaph. I was reading on shape poems when i stumbled across that how "epitaph" is also considered to be a form of poem. So here i was trying to write one, but it turned out to be pretty long, which only means that when i die i will need a bigger stone..Sylvia writes this one. here is the one who lived many seasons ago, wanted a vintage burial, her life so surreal tell, tail,tale it was all the same, her poor life was so lame, dreams bounced off the beams, now ripped off at the seams, she wanted to write a story, she wanted all the fame & the glory, she couldn't write a single line, loved the pickled lemon floating in brine, such silly rhymes she would write, that all the noted authors ran away in fright, her dreams far, now buried deep under, all she used to do was to complain & wonder, now inside a wooden box, her dreams all dead, dark, misty, like  a month old bread, here she lied buried, da