Short Poetry - Tumblr Posts

Love is contentment,

Hope is disappointment.

Hate is something that one actively chooses, it doesn't start itself. What comes naturally to the soul, is love.

Do not let your experiences turn your altruism into indifference. Trust me what goes, comes back around. For you and for me.

“Despair is the price one pays for self-awareness. Look deeply into life, and you’ll always find despair.”

— Irvin Yalom

I wander in my own thoughts,

Lost in my own world.

Maybe this place isn't mine,

Or my soul is elsewhere.

The galaxies and stars

Ask me at last,

"Where have you been, dear?"

Numb but awestruck, lost in myself

I tell them,

"To a paradise, you might not know of."

"Not a chance!", they exclaim.

"We are here since forever,

Witnessed every bud flourish into a flower and every leaf decay into the soil."

"And you reckon a place, not in our books?"

"Was this "destination" of yours, a dream?"

Taken over by placidity, I say,

"Not a cloud, nor a stream, no trace of the slightest being,"

"It wasn't grand, wasn't sweet."

"But I was intrigued by myself,

And found a paradise within."

Away from here

My eyes cry and drip with golden tears

My mouth wails with my fears

I look back at the moments you hold me

Was it all lies or was it sincere

I want to leave this place

Run away to the city or the suburbs

Anywhere mundane

Somewhere I do not scream my pain

For that place I do not want to lay sight

I'd set it on fire on broad daylight

It's poison to my mouth, my lips, my tongue

The air is toxic to my lungs

So I'll pack my shit

The cab I ordered their I shall sit

I'll make my life as I see fit

I'll be gone from you, away from "our" place

Yet still I yern to stay

Pain? I don't see it like that anymore friend. Just a path to happiness. When I get there I'll enjoy good food and company. Accompanied with good wine and music. Then when it's all over back on the path to the next.

The spider

I was being critized for my chaotic life and they deemed it not normal. To which I replied, yeah but tell me what is chaos to a spider? You fall into the spider's web. You can't get out. Your very struggle alerts the spider. Now your in the spiders focus. Before you know it you're wrapped in doom and your viens are emptied. This is pure chaos but to the spider it's every day survival. I use to envy butterflies like you until I realized. There's those who fall to chaos and there's those who thrive in it. I prefer to be the one that thrives.

Would you let love in?

If my love kept knocking when would you let it in?

It could help fix up the place. Straighten the frames. Replace some floorboard. When it's time you'll ask, what about your place, and I'll chuckle and smile. Look around you, the framing are my bones, they hold the weight. The air is my blood that circulates about keeping this place warm when it's freezing out. My dreams are the foundation, something firm to stand on. And the fireplace is my heart. It's weak sometimes and could use some kindle. But it never goes out. This house is just as much mine as it is yours. Ours.

Borrowed time

The time I have is borrowed from the other universes that lay parallel to ours. My other selves knew this one would be short lived with you.

Truest form of my love for us

Summer feels rotten this year.

Do you realise change is happening when it does?

I am scared that one day I will cut too deep to my bones. However exposed they already are, I do not wish to expose them myself. My foundations are too unstable, unfit for an earthquake.

Flies buzz around, vultures swarm, so I know I still live, not quite dead, not enough. Forever, eternally, not enough, even as I enter death.

Can I be enough, I wonder, as I drift into ghost form, spirits swirling in my head. Cliché to say they are my old selves, but they are. I have died too many times to believe it myself.

I die a little everytime I hear your voice. However cruel I am, I will be crueler.

Words sharp enough to make myself weep with how cleanly they cut.

My beauty falls short of that of a tragic heroine. My beauty falls short of that of a common whore.

My beauty falls nowhere, as there is no beauty to fall down.

End scene.

I am young.

Heart falls freely from my hands,

Love blessing all that I do,

Heart seems to glaze my eyes over,

Love blessing everything that I see,

Heart drips into my ears,

Love blessing so much that I hear.

I an young.

Death sleeps restlessly in my soul,

Hurt infecting so much that I know,

Death reaches its hand over my mouth,

Hurt infecting everything that I say,

Death sweeps my legs out from under me,

Hurt infecting my knees from where they bleed freely.

I am young.

title: MUSIC FINAL PROJECT

Leaves fall and seasons turn,

but i don't know why,

I still yearn for the warmth of your light (your light: smooth).

However fleeting, was crucial to my existence,

don't know how I've survived without you. The stars only know of my love for you (love: deeper),

i loved you like a hole in my ground,

always room for more.

But like dirt,

you discarded me.

Do I not deserve pity,

Have some of mine it overflows,

What will I do with my humanity?

title: UNFINISHED, LOVE GOES STALE AND COLD

I am afraid that in love I shall never be the other woman.

I will never be earnestly wanted while someone that should love me is stuck with someone else.

Someone boring or overenthusiastic.

Someone who talks too much or too little.

I am afraid no one will ever truly yearn deeply for my heart.

I am afraid I will be boring and miserable and too clingy or cold and harsh.

I am afraid because I know the truth.

I am not perfect enough or beautiful enough or anything truly special.

I am not and will never be truly special in any way at all.

I will continue to yearn for a heart of my own but will never achieve it.

I cannot be loved in the way I wish to be, which is unconditionally.

People cannot love me without seeing too many flaws.

I will never be perfect or even desirable to anyone.

It would be delusional of me to ever really think that I would be chosen over someone's first love or ex girlfriend.

I am the wife who gets divorced, the girlfriend who gets cheated on, the mother who is abandoned.

I am fine for a small while.

But not a fling type person, that is for beautiful people who do not care.

I am to be liked and asked out and moved in with and made love to.

I am to be resented and deprecated and abused and yelled at.

I am to be everyone's shoulder and pedestal and cane.

I exist to be left behind.

I exist to be forgotten.

I exist to be joked about at parties and with friends at bars.

I exist to be broken

(WIP)

There were times in life, when,

I've been broken, and I've been bare

and like you promised, to be by my side always

your thoughts defiantly, have always been there.

Vanshika Singh

I've felt like the weight of this world

was lifted off my shoulders.

When I uttered those massless words

at that moment when I was bolder.

You ask me why I had it inside

why didn't I speak up before?

Am I being vocal from now on

and decide to hide no more?

It feels nice being unmute

but once in a while, I think.

The weight of the world has forced me

to draw it into words by my ink.

UNMUTE- Vanshika Singh

I met an old friend of mine days ago. And it was a strange encounter that captured my mind for a while. She was my friend when I was 13 years old, and we had a strange parting where she claimed I wasn't interesting enough to be friends with. However childish, it did take a piece of my mind and I was always wondering what is 'interesting' and why am I not it.

Back to the meeting, I was caught off guard when she smiled at me. I didn't know what to do. Hold onto the grudge I held for years, or finally let it go. 'You are no more a thirteen years old! Get over it already.', I chided myself. And so uncomfortably, I smiled back at her.

To my wonder, she took it as a cue to walk upto me and ask how I was doing. I am good- I told her, a part of me already softening over her existence. Suddenly she said she loves my poems and reads them really often. Like an instinct, the sarcastic words left my mouth, "Finally find me interesting enough?"

I regretted the words the moment they left my mouth. The discomfort on her face nearly made me apologize. But my rational self adviced me to laugh it out and say I was joking(which I was not). I did that.

As we parted, she asked for my contact number, and even though a part of me was reluctant, I shared it.

Now when I think of it, I smile at the irony that how her discomfort had me worried. While all my discomfort for years probably meant nothing at that moment. The friend I was to her, never died. I was glad of the closure I got. I realised I wasn't angry anymore. I was interesting then too, she only did not see me the way i deserved to be seen.

I had never felt happier. And I feel that is all we need in life. To stop turning over and reading the same pages again. When the chapters are done, the book should be closed.

"I don't know what to do with all the adoration I store inside for people around me!"

"Tell them! They'd feel good."

I shook my head, "That's not like me."

"Then what is like you?"

"Writing ambiguous symbolic poetries about them, that they barely understand. And feel smug about their obliviousness."

The absence of stuff to feel about,

I think,

is overrated.

Ask someone who feels so much,

that they have to write it on paper,

so it doesn't overflow.