whine of a swine

Mint leaves and coriander, bathing in the buffalo ghee. Slightly golden-brown onions, dancing around with ginger and garlic. I take a sniff of the greatest smell ever— my mother’s cooking. I take pride in our brass pot, my grandfather's inheritance.  Let this be my only meal, a torch in my dim life. Let it fill my stomach fully, until it bursts open. Let my death taste heaven.                                                                                 Every Sunday, I look forward to biryani . It might seem such a gluttonous thing for me to say—maybe I am, but I enjoyed cooking with my family more than eating the food.  We start with a really good coconut , the one that is sweet, the one that's soft and full of life. I hit it against the stone. This job used to ...

I bury a million flowers in my graveyard, All that hides my pain. Each flower is a façade .  Each stem is a cry.   I bury all my pain in secrets, And all my secrets in flowers  All those flowers in my graveyard  And my beautiful graveyard in my heart. Whenever my heart cries,  Or when my eyes bleed .  I shall pick all the white roses—  The ones that already picked my bloody tears.  I'll arrange them in a vase,  A vase in my bleak living room.  I'll place those flowers in my home. I'll let my blood decorate my life. I'd let you into my place,  Perhaps let you creep through the window.  But can your eyes spot the difference?  Between the red roses and mine  bloody ones.                                                                    ...

My cries for help are always silent. I wait for someone to hear my silent lament. My throat numb, my tears invisible. I hide everything, yet ache to be seen. I wrap my pain in words, decorated with metaphors. I disguise it in poetry, hoping no one catches me. Yet I hope someone reads, analyzes what I meant. I wait for eyes of concern, behind a smile that hides everything. I am a paradox of human pain.                                         I hide everything, yet I ache to be seen. I don't think I could describe my pain in any way other than this. I honestly don't believe that someone would read my blog, I don't think I have an audience that begs to love my words. As a poet, i always craved for understanding and literally validation, but soon, I've understood that my words do not such an audience. I have been feeling invisible, unworthy for a really long time. Today's perhaps ...

Shy leaves— that shrink themselves  immediately  with the touch of air.  My mother,  long fascinated by the plant  that grows everywhere.  Although shy,  it has thrones—  tiny, hidden  but enough to hurt and bleed.  The shy plant,  but not kind,  grows adamantly,  undisturbed by harsh weed.  She begged a little boy to get her a sapling. She wanted to adore  the shy plant as it contracts its leaves. My father,  her husband,  blind to her wish— wrapped his fingers  around the sapling threw it away,  to grow something  of his choosing a money plant that decorates,  at the cost of his wife's sapling Was he not aware?  Was he blind?  I'm afraid I cannot answer so.  Because I have stopped him  from reaching out   to a rogue touch-me-not, reminding him  of its thorns. I watch the regret  in his eyes,  and the pride  to not admi...

  forgotten , as i barely hang my nail, rusted with years of burden  i fade without a human's gaze my colours blending me into the wall i  yearn for you to see me                                                   Last week, i was a rotting marionette, this week I'm a forgotten painting. I'm incapable of expressing my pain as a normal individual, I wasn't taught how to. So, instead, it slips out of me in the form of poetry.  I can only see myself in sad pitiful objects and personify them into myself. All my attempts to be a human, are always pathetic.  I sometimes would feel like a forgotten painting hanging, on a very rusted nail that's about to give up, and on a browned wall which stores years of dust and pain of a family. It might have been a very vibrant painting once, but now it's almost blended into the background, even t...

A heavy blanket on my mind,  A marionette with broken strings.  "How do I dance" she'd want to ask,  "How do I talk" she'd want to say,  "What happened to me" she'd tried to remember,  She'd want to open her lips, and scream until it woke up her master. But alas, her strings are broken,  Her routines are forgotten. Let her lay in a dusted corner,  Where the termites live beneath the damp wall,  Let her rot,           it's not like she can function at all.                                                                                                               This is a poem about the state of my mind. I'm not sure how long I have ...