Soumya Scribbles...

I fear innocent these days. I can not look upto his eyes in fear of if he asks, "Why did you do it?" I just can't stand in front of a mirror that has people behind. They ask, "Why did you?". - "What did I?" You just asked: "Where is the painter in his painting?" SoUmY@ -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Do not ask me what is this. Its happened to be called 55 Fiction What is 55 Fiction? A literary work will be considered 55 Fiction if it has: Fifty-five words or less ( A non-negotiable rule ) A setting, One or more characters, Some conflict, and A resolution. ( Not limited to moral of the story ) Usha ma'am is entirely responsible for this one. She insisted that I write one on 55 er and I can't skip. So, here was that attempt which I am sure was nothing worse than a torture. But, but, Why don't you try yourself? Try and write one 55 Fiction yo...

On one such occasion When words left me while I was sleeping I knew they will be there, somewhere Hiding behind the walls of worn out verses, Fabricated lies, Stories of us and them and Truths of me, curtained. I have books by my name That has grown over me long before. What is left is ashes of success Which I had smoked to futility. Burdened is a poetry That expects jewels in return and crippled is his pen who builds a stage that is consciously poetic To us (or them?). I have seen colors fade- Sky to be green, Leaves came gray Love to be black and words in white. So I wait as time ticks by and with a curious alertness I try To decipher the tune of silence To listen to the words that are lost. A victim I am and a spectator you are Of the moment that recycles poesy back To the dot, when diamonds were uncut and roses were without petals. Don't you count Who got sold and for how much. SoUmY@

I will confess to the tree About the times I had spent underneath with you. Rain tastes the same, feels the same Brings back you and memories Wherever. I see sunrays draw many a tangents Through the window over the shelf Where you and I reside, mute, in albums. You died once. I die many a deaths each day. For remembering you at moments when I wish not And for I wish if I could remember at some others. The flames overwhelm from both sides. I jump. I love winters for nature is at loss then. Just like me. And for memories that burn me from within, I become a victim Where life plays voodoo and I lose us, All too often. SoUmY@

Sometimes I stand near the window- Old fashioned, rusty with fading colors. It shows me an eyeful of sky Where clouds conspire and turn black. Clouds are like memories, no? You know it will rain, but when. I see the quiet lane in a midsummer noon. On one such day my kittens ran away And never came back. I wish if I could see them once, right now. I hope they are alive. They will surprise me one day. Do you think cats have emotions? I see the gulmohar tree. Under which you had held my hand and promised... ...Promised to hold my hand, forever. Never. The gulmohar lives on. So do I and you, may be. All apart, distant, as three incidents who never met. Do you think trees have memories? I wish the gulmohar will die. I wonder why do I talk of pain, Of them who have left me, Of the kite orphaned in the vast sky, for paper boats that never return. All that is lost can always be found. I cry for all that remains but can't be mine,... ...For the memories of a moth Who dived into the fire one...

Beyond the horizon lies the gray that rests between your feet, delicately. Waves ripple and glide past the footsteps, Silently washing off your prints afar, Uncomplaining in tender reverence. You raise your arms as if to embrace the sea. I see twilight, I feel air gently hushing by. The crimson Sun is at its last breath And caresses you with quiet blessings. As your innocence reflects upon the gracing Sun and the soothing sea I stand mute and mesmerized... ... Oblivious of the rest as the triad touches me And I cry, just. SoUmY@ [p.s. -> This post of mine is inspired by the picture atop. I thank Jennifer for letting me share this. And this piece goes to Angel . ]

Wish I could be a cloud one day I will love to be grey if its you To whom, through whom I traverse. Transparency is optimum; For I know you are unattainable like the sand escaping from the fist like the meaning assumed from the gist. look, oh yes, I can rhyme too. If you wish I can artify our world. Inspiration never needs a permit. You had asked, Why do I vomit blood. Interruptions in dreamy un-realism doesn't suit me. I know. So I write. So that I can breathe you in and breathe dreams out. Live long, you had wished. (Wished), did you? honestly? I will let it pass like just another Failed attempt to face reality Finds itself en-route to contamination. Oh! then what is pure? you may ask. Purity is not you, not me, but us. Purity is the way verses traverse. I will vomit to death one day. Do not pray for me. Pray for my poems who are quiet. Let them borrow my breaths. Let the poetry for us live. (And the footnotes conclude:) You - a miser in love Me - a happy lender. SoUmy@

I have peeled my skin With each of your blank verses. My poetry has gone through erosions, lost pages of memoirs, Un-remembrance and what else? Irreversibility never liked me. Nor did I. Blood has dripped, once, twice, May be more? I never had a scale to fathom what I lost. Nor did veins apologized, ever. Veins, oh they know when to let go of you As color red. You had a quotient of quality. I have put myself on either side of balancing machine, Have weighed myself with my emotions Perhaps the odd moments against my soul. Unperturbed you were, you are. A perfect imbalance I am. Just like this verse which pleads to be understood. I leave you with one question except me: Will you ever kill your shadow to be alone? Oh nights have the answer still. I will wait. I know you won't know for Dark never wronged black. SoUmY@