what i think when i think about myself

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the unembellished glass on my window
is not of a reflecting kind, it changes color
with the sun’s brow, disguised by its own
retention of what hitherto it did beget –

when i think about selves, i mirror
the glass of my window, and pluck apples
from my eyes to taste the sense of sight,
and single out every experience in its own light,

when i think about lives, i snigger
like the loony bark of the mutt outside, and push
into the so-called oblivion, a thought to right
the wrongs of being one of a kind, of this plight,

when i think about you, i am triggered
by your mirror of my own life, and try to pick
from your eyes, any sign of a comic relief, to indict
myself for subsumption of an egotistic delight,

when i think about myself, i quiver
like the potent wine of the sky outside, and pull
out from my own self, a torn thought to site
every memory, to extinguish into the night.

.

For Poets United Midweek Motif

Photo edited through Instagram and Prisma

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*Linking with dVerse OLN

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words and other kinds of addictions

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jarred from a pint of smoke
swirling like a gothic eyeliner
in my lungs, i feel the white rush
of an unsung addiction all over me
(being breathless in lieu of living),

i have seen beatific dreams of
an obtuse octopus, jeering jellyfishes
through my inner-channel
of reprieve – the loss of only a certain
kind of mediocrity,

i do not fit into the lines of my sleeping bag,
too big to carry my shoes on the head,
or crown me with metal links, or to tattle
through fists – the truth of only a certain
kind of morbidity,

i am a wastrel marooned in the aftermath
of my demise by goodness, unfit to perform,
cease control to rememorize, or to chase
my ghosts – the habit of a certain
kind of melancholy.

.

Image source (Up In Smoke Painting by Meredith B)

For Wordle # 202 at Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie

It’s been a while – I haven’t felt the need to make a post in all this time. I have still been writing and discovering new avenues of my own expression, developing and improving the craft of my verse and its corresponding art. I have incidentally worked on a short collection for myself, indulging in everything from writing and editing to framing the layout and designing the cover (owing to my amateur skills in layout and designing software). It’s been an invigorating experience. My thoughts are catered now towards the idea of getting it published perhaps – I do not know yet whether I should pitch it for traditional publishing or self-publish it instead.
Nevertheless, it’s good to be posting something on this blog again, which had helped me through the harshest of times and made me fall deeper and deeper in love with poetry.

Sometimes I forget my name

sometimes I forget my name

in the thrust of the wind

and thirst of the mind,

I am hanging along the lines

of identities, in crisis of

life, in need of a clarity

.

sometimes I forget my name

to find me on streets, walking

as if I am aware where they go

they do not end by my

illusion of identity, in haze of

the light, in worlds unreal

.

sometimes I forget my name

when I explore on the map-

a dimension where I could

find the portal to bring me

back, I am a solid mass in

weightless sky, in words untrue

.

sometimes I forget my name

because I have embraced so much

that is beyond me, I fly above

ground, while my tethers are

still rooted within the soil, in

need of me to come back to me

.

sometimes I forget my name

and I think that is alright

as long as I do not rule myself

out of me, as long as I am there

to see, to feel, to touch, in lands

of this reality, I may still find me

.

Image source

Deceiving Mirror Eyes

through into the mirror world,

his eyes search for his lost reflection,

that he saw disappear, on the iris

of the reflection of his being,

he looks for it, shadowed by it,

finding his way, losing it

in the reverse reality, his fingers

deciphering the codes, on

the walls inverted, plains elevated,

blindingly searching for his self,

that resided in the wide expanse,

where lifeless lives drift into one,

and coalesce with each other,

into an amalgam of shadows,

he appraise them all but it was

not to be found, what he had come

looking for, and then he reaches a portal,

a door that leads to nowhere,

and on the other side, he finds it,

looking into his eyes astounded,

he stays put but it disappears

in the iris of reflection of his eyes,

he has gone and he has come by,

it is unknown what he is, what he was,

a material, now reflection,

reflecting back, disappearing in one,

and yet materializing in another, looking

for the eyes and the empty iris,

where he disappeared once

.

Image source

Linking it up with:

1. Poets United Mid Week Motif- Mirror

2. Imaginary Garden Prompt: In the Eyes