If I were to give
A title to my life
I wonder what it would be
A phrase,
Like a story?
A word,
Dipped in poetry?
A rhyme,
To conjure a symphony ?
Or simply a sound,
Ringing in harmony?
If I were to give
A title to my life
I wonder what it would be
Poetry, prose, melody or noise?
Or all together
Like a smorgasbord?
If I were to give
A title to my life
Whatever it would be
I hope somewhere
It proudly mentions
That I passed on
Fulfilled.
I was just a girl
With a whole lot to say
But lips sewn tightly shut.
You gave me a pen
And a scrape of waste paper
And the stitches fell away.
Words flew
Bled
And oozed
Across the dirty, stained page.
By the time I was done
I was undone.
As I watched every surface
Slowly overrun with scribbles
I allowed myself to smile.
For I was just a girl
With a whole lot to say
But lips sewn tightly shut
Yet, till the time I have words
At my mercy
I’ll always find a way.
There are words
And then there are words
Written to stir souls
Spoken to ignite fires
Resonating with grit
And the force of desires
Some others still
Create lyrical melodies
Their harmonic composition
Curing fearful maladies
And all I can do
Is soak them all in
Read. It’s a good habit, I was told
But I gladly beg to differ here
Do more than read
Feel. Feel the essence of every word
And you’ll be one with the world.
Writers play with words, they say.
No, my dear. Writers pen down feelings in the form of words after they’ve been played with.
“You know there’s no such thing as ghosts, right?” He said, when she told him she’s scared of watching horror movies because the scenes come back to her at night.
She nodded in mute assent. Acknowledging what was only logical.
Her mind, however, delved into a separate plane.
She wondered – what of the ghosts of memories that come back to haunt our every waking moment?
Or the phantom shards of broken promises that pierce through our very heart?
The spirit of a future, dead before it could even come alive, like an unborn child, but always a part of our existence?
She thought of the demons of jealousy, ego and pride residing within us, gnawing away at our very cores.
The fear of failure, draining away our life’s source.
But most of all
She thought
Of men and women who enter our lives and then leave a trail of destruction in their wake.
No, he’s right, she thought. There’s no such thing as otherworldly, undead ghosts. For they paled and faded away in the face of the monsters that live in this very world.
Hello my lovelies,
I tried something different with this piece. Still in two minds about it. Not sure if it conveys what it wanted to say. Would love to know if it resonates with you and what you feel about it. So please humour me, maybe, and drop a comment down below?
And as always, thank your for reading!
Love,
Varnika.
Learn the art of converting your prized work into a book from one of the very best bloggers (and also my personal favourite) that we have here!
Thank you, Christine, for taking the time to write this.
When I first contemplated choosing pieces and organizing them for Composition of a Woman, I naively thought it would be fairly quick and straightforward process. I had recently served as the editor for an art show chapbook that included pieces from 12 very diverse girls and women and as the primary editor for Anthology Volume […]
via Anatomy of a Book: Choosing and Organizing Your Writing — Brave & Reckless
Look what’s freshly brewing over at the Go Dog Go Cafe! We’re very excited to reveal the theme for February and can’t wait to dig into some beautiful words. So, why don’t you grab a fresh pot, put on your thinking caps to filter everything out, grind those wheels of your beautiful mind and, who know, you just might become our flavour of the month!
Steve Fuller has been encouraging the Baristas to develop monthly themes for the Go Dog Go Cafe’s Baristas and guest writers to use as a springboard for their creativity, much like the Chef’s use a unifying ingredient on Iron Chef or Chopped.
We will be launching this “ingredient for the month” concept in February in way that let’s us honor the great writer Ursula K. Le Guin, who we lost earlier this week after an amazing life of writing and inspiring adults and children around the world with her powerful storytelling, poetry, and essays. We challenge all of you to write a poem, essay, reflective piece, story, flash fiction that honors her, is inspired by a favorite LeGuin story, or dives into the mind of a character in one of her books. You pick, she is your main ingredient.
If you decide to take us up on our monthly challenge, please submit…
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Blank walls
And blank pages.
Nothing to account for
A life that was lived.
The still warm body
Looked peacefully at rest
Endowed with an eternal sleep.
Yet, still floating behind those closed eyes,
Lingering as if to prolong their goodbyes,
Were a myriad fluttering dreams.
Misery.
Now that’s a feeling altogether too familiar.
An intermittent visitor, almost familial.
But that’s the thing about bad feelings.
They trouble you only when experienced meagerly.
An overdose confers you with immunity.
In my case,
I’ve come to accept it,
Welcome it,
And even
Conquer it.
Have you ever experienced the kind of scream so desperate that it rips you apart and, yet, fails to make a single sound? The one where you’re crying out with every iota of your being but your voice gets caught in your throat? You’re not choking, no, you’re only unable to speak. You can hear it inside your head, though.
It begins like any other scream, sans, of course, any sound, but as it proceeds, taking its time, you start getting gripped by a paralyzing fear. You’re overtaken by a growing confusion. Not understanding what’s happening. Panicking, you try to scream even louder, your vocal chords getting strained beyond capacity. Your eyes widen, terrified. You feel like your end is near. You try flailing your limbs in retaliation, as an attempt to free yourself – only to find you cannot do that either.
Have you ever been so helpless and so scared? When you wake up from this dream, do you find yourself drenched in sweat? Your heart working double time trying to calm its palpitations? Do you find your knuckles turned white and your fist clenched so tight that your nails managed to dig into your skin and have drawn streaks of blood? Do you find the ghostly remnants of your scream still lingering on your mind, haunting and knowing?
Because, I do.
