Autumn afternoon
It's too quiet
The air's too still
The birds are silent
But the ant hill
Is frantic movement
Sets of six legs scurrying
Hither and thither
They know something
I sniff the air
It smells of pollen
And fresh cut grass
There's no insects
Humming as they fly
Or scent of rain
But the farmer fertilises
She knows something
I make some tea
And when I sit again
The sky has changed it's outfit
From blue, to striking grey
Storm clouds billowing
As tall as skyscrapers
Thunder growls
And fat drops of rain
Begin to fall
It's empty on the ant hill
The farmer - disappeared
The tractor's roar silenced
And now I smell the rain
That fresh, metallic smell
And hear it's awesome crescendo
As it pelts down
And washes everything
Drops turn to rivulets
And tiny pools to puddles
And still the torrent falls
Until it's gushing
Gushing - in the gullies
Gushing from the gutters
And splashing on the windows
And the whole world turned opaque
Thunder roars and groans
Lighting stings and strikes
Cloud sweep across the skies
Those violent, angry skies
And I curl up on my lounge
To watch the fury unfold
To marvel at my smallness
In the face of such turbulence
Social Tendencies.
You say that I'm pretty, I've heard it all before
Your two intercrossed fingers; "How vile and impure!"
You tell me I'm funny; laughter's the cure
But it's not a joke when you're insecure
About what people say about your character
Judging you fatally like well-dressed barristers
It's hard to feel wanted, they make it seem impossible
To climb the social ladder, when that is very possible
Because the ladder is an illusion; a careful way of deception
To capture the self-haters and change their perception
And make them feel guilty for not wanting directions
From the rich and the popular on their strong inception
Manipulating personality at a level so unattainable
That the laws of the world find its so agreeable
To use us as objects; "Why, this is unbelievable!"
They've trapped us in too deep
But our rebellion is inevitable.
Canvas of her Heart
A blank canvas.
That’s what they all want.
Untouched by the strokes of the paint brush.
The vibrancy of colors left unseen.
His emotion’s untranslated.
That’s what they all want.
A person untouched.
Where fingers haven’t coursed through his hair;
Hands unimprinted on his skin.
But you see,
He wasn’t a blank canvas.
Characters brought to life by each stroke of his brush;
Where red hues splashed the corners,
Melding into the orange and pinks.
Many viewed his art;
Color blind.
Unable to appreciate the intricacy he weaved,
Some tried to change his work;
Seen in the grey smudges of pencil marks left behind.
But he couldn’t erase it.
Though he tried;
Tears left at the edges.
Stumbling upon his canvas,
She took one look.
She saw the red hues and felt his anger when life was unfair,
The orange and pink where he saw that glimmer of hope.
The calmness of the blue splattered at the center when he felt at peace,
Merging into the purple of his self-acceptance.
She passed her fingers on the smudges and tears,
Feeling the heartbreak he once experienced.
His emotions translated in the vibrancy of the colors,
By someone who could see all his shades.
Who knew not only what each stroke and splash meant
But what brush he used.
Her fingers understood the texture of his canvas.
A masterpiece in her eyes;
She wouldn’t change a thing.
His creation hung on the wall,
Becoming the canvas of her heart.
-A. Priya
fin.
[used to have an account on here last year by the user ‘strawberry’ ,, going to repost some of my writing on this new account :) ]
so, what now?
i told you i loved you and you clamped your hand over my mouth.
i still love you; my mouth is still sealed.
will that change if the sound of trains racing across tracks drowns out the confession?
will it cease to exist if you turn up the music in the car when my tongue wraps around the last syllable?
i still love you; you still know of it.
is there no hope for us, after all?
your teeth marks are still imprinted on my clavicle,
your hands still bruised against my hip,
your saliva still mingled with the bile from my vomit —
do you truly think if we pretend to be shadows in the night, the sun will forget we burn as fire in the day?
It all started
...the day I found an egg carton strewn across the walk.
Irritated I was tempted to kick it off the path.
Garbage's right there! Picturing the idiot, failing to make the basket
I saw myself taking a grand 4-pt-shot----Whoooooosh!!
And so, I stooped, picking it up, eggshell like, light-as-a-feather.
Something's off-balance....hmmmmm.
I clucked: wtf--? cracking the cover
...when something clucked back.
09.01.2024
(Strange Suspense)@Last