Best Napowrimo Poems
At an approximate distance of 2 benches, you stood there, every day explaining how two negatives makes a positive. I remember, that day, ages ago, when you told me that I was special, and I knew you meant it. I know you'll mean it even now because I believe in you. That very same day, my best friend and I sat on the extreme left row and waited for you to enter. I remember the look on your face when you saw that in a class of 60 students, there were only 2. I remember the anger, the agony and peace. I see your face in my dreams sometimes and when I do, I see peace. Peace in your eyes, smile on your face and words, so many words. I remember how you waited outside our exam hall to wish us good luck and I know you don't know this, but I really needed that. I've never told you this, but the majority of my life seems wasted, but that one moment is what covers up for it.
I don't want to tell you what all you taught that have made a huge difference in my life, but I really want you to know that what I've achieved, yet, is less of me and more of you. You were supposed to teach us a language, correct our grammar, give us essays and yet you taught us virtue, morals, taking responsibility and I owe all of my ideals to you. While we were being taught about calculus and accounts, you were teaching us how to be a human being. I've never had an epiphany like this before, but today that I'm standing between what is right and what is correct has made me realize what you meant when you said “we make our choices based on what standards we set for ourselves.”
This one time, the last time that we met, you looked at me while crossing the road and smiled. At that moment I realized that I didn't need anything from you, just the fact that you recognized me was enough affirmation and I shall cherish it all my life. I don't think I'll ever have the courage to send this to you, but I really hope that you change the life of many vagrants as you once did mine.
Love,
M
I don't know which type I am. The A
type which is always ready to for an
adventure, would want to talk on the
phone and not really on the message
Or the B type, the one who really lie low,
loves to be left alone with their
thoughts, just need a book and coffee.
I don't know which type I am. I am the
one who wants to be there, always,
with my friends, having fun and seeking
adventure but not always, I carry my
favorite book to my favorite places
alone and in that quest, I start feeling
lonely, the kind of lonely that comes
when you're surrounded by people. I
don't know which type I am, I think
these types were created by us to make
the people conform to the set principles
and to understand ourselves the way
we perceive everyone else, ordinary and
vanilla. So, I don't know which type I am.
I am the type who gets a bout of *****
only sometimes. The kind of courage that
forces me to download a dating app but
doesn't help in actually going out and
meeting people. The type that enables
my every act of sneering insolence and
makes me believe that I am a product
of these baseless by-laws, and I'm ought
to be like this and act like this. I don't
know which type I am, but I know that
I am not what the world wants me to be.
We exist.
They tell me not to read mythology and
believe aimlessly what is forever told.
Of the formation of this universe, the
chaos that metamorphed into the sun,
the stars, the planets, you and me. The
violent rage and act of defiance by
Amnon and his death acting as a deterra
-nce, probably the first where the crime
did someone free. Did you know of all the
Greek tragedy, my favorite is the one told
by Sophocles? It talks of love, honor, the
duty, oppression and tyranny as it unfolds.
They tell me not to read mythology and
believe aimlessly what is forever told.
I recall now that I once read, of woman so
strong, warriors she fed. Madhavi was her
name and she bore it with pride, she was
used as a fortune by them. Alas, it was
written by men. Forever, I did try to find the
genesis of his highness Macbeth or of
Sisyphus, who twice cheated death. If you
close your eyes, you can hear poor Orpheus'
lore.
They tell me not to read mythology and
believe aimlessly what is forever told.
When they ask me to believe, I do often
gather, the four horsemen making their way
to end the world, but I'd take hurricanes and
tsunamis rather. Fearless as they are, it's the
women who call me from the narrative they
are written in, always longing to be at par.
The mightiness of the men, their heroism is
at what the story is often sold.
They tell me not to read mythology and
believe aimlessly what is forever told.
I often look at my bookshelf and it dawns on me
the beauty that it holds is far greater than
what I ever will see. In all that it seems and what the
eyes see, what the heart seeks, I shall never know.
I often look at the dust that is now taken hostage of
these marvels. I try to brush it off and I stop, as if
forcing it to take me too for my story is in there,
somewhere, not known to anybody. I often hold
my breath and try to count all those stories that
reminded me of mine, I hold my breath in hopes
of forgetting to breathe for I shall seek solace in
my dusty host drifting to the world that is my own.
19 million people, waking up in the morning,
going about their lives, from one corner to
another, jumping on one route and reaching
another. Delhi, you beautiful beautiful city,
I hear you carry, within, a soul so old that
you age with time. Oh Delhi, you beautiful
mistake.
19 million people, 573 sq. mi long city,
so many lives, so many dreams. Delhi, you
infuriating mess. Ask anyone they'll have a
story to tell, of a time not known to you, a
time not understood by me but a thousand
people willing to stop and listen along with
their daily cup of tea.
Everyone in here experiences this city in a
way that quite differently do align, and they
are definitely unconnected to mine. Mine
starts with a gate, number 7 it seems,
a chamber block with III written on it and a
floor to see what is unseen. Oh Delhi,
you are so full of mysteries.
On the 7th floor fire exit, you can see the
glory of this city in one place. If you look at
the expanse, I swear you can fly. From the
magnificence that is the Raisina Hill, running
along the Parliament and the tricolored
beauty of India gate. Hold on, wait for a
moment. Absorb the lights, the Grandeur
and move one.
The chilly breeze, often takes you with it to
the never ending work in progress that is
Pragati Maidan which literally translates
to “progress grounds” and to the ruins of
the Old fort, which once was the residence
of the huge empire, resonates the losses
and the gains.
The 7th floor fire exit captures the beauty
that is Delhi, but it also takes you on a
journey to the gems lost in time. If you look
around, you'll see the Jawaharlal Nehru
Stadium, sitting on the high chair, looking
down at the city. If you go a little further,
you'll find the Lotus temple.
Right there, just there, stop and think. Look
beyond the temple and you'll find yourself.
You'll see where you've reached and the
place where you started from. Delhi, you are
the reason for my suffering and the reason
for my contentment.
There are 19 million people in this city and
the 7th floor, Chamber block III is my place
of solace.
A deep brown collar, lurking from
underneath the green plaid coat.
A smirk on your face, as you turned
the page of your favorite book. “To
define is to limit”, I feel my maroon
muffler tighten around you in a
pursuit to choke me, but I resist. I
resist your raspy voice, your stubble
trimmed to perfection, your quoting
of Fitzgerald and Wilde, you, I'm trying
to resist you. There's something deeply
intriguing when we dissect the movies
that we watch. I swear, my heart
fluctuates when we leave one another
notes where mine consists of all the
books you should read and yours are
filled with words describing your last
bowel movement. Last night, we danced
to Johann Pachelbel while you whispered
Rilke in my ears. Did I tell you that we
were communicating with our eyes, but
your eyes somehow spoke fluent
German? But I'm resisting you, I'm
trying. I manchmal stand in stillness
and wonder if you can listen to my
silence. “The only way to get rid of
temptation is to yield to it.” I hate it when
you take Dorian gray as an excuse to
solve, almost all of our problems.
People just laugh around you, the mom
-ents stop and look at the vision that is
you and I, I stand here, motionless, com
-posing my body, my brain, my heart, my
gentle gentle heart. Alas, it's time for me
to wake up.
I've come to a halt. My body
doesn't want to move, it is
breathing out air, inhaling and
exhaling but moving, no. It is
done, I am done, my brain, my
body, every nerve in my system is
done. I recently watched this
show called “Feel good” in hopes
to feel good myself, and it hit me
like an epiphany, how comedy
often masks the complexities
of nature, we call it mental health.
So, now that I've watched
something that was supposed to
be feel good, and I don't feel good
after it, I think that the feelings that
are resonated by my mind, my body,
will go unnoticed. I don't know how
to feel about it and whom to talk
about it. So, now, my body is in this
state of self loathing with an ounce
of anxiety because I wanted to watch
something that'd make me feel good,
but instead I watched something that
made me miserable.
The visibly yellow set, a bus stop
and a being of excitement. The
taste buds now saved from all the
vices, to not ruin what was promised
in the morning. As far as promises
go, this was the best yet.
A ride full of bumps is nothing
compared to the bumps that are
currently wreaking havoc in my
stomach. The thought of holding
that metal plate, with copious
amount of kidney beans-- pause-
correction, the copious amount of
Rajma Chawal not only gives you
the immense satisfaction of eating
something so elite but also, after a
long day, is what home actually is.
It so happened some years ago,
a story of the past it seems,
the room was wide and huge,
absorbing the echoes of her screams.
Her tale is told in those corridors still,
where she roams, almost as if free,
the ghost of her bolting/shutting doors,
what happened that night, I couldn't foresee.
Loud banging waking up the dead,
calling them to join her quest,
the dead following her in the night,
In that hostel only dead did rest.
I hear her sometimes still,
in what I believe are dreams,
I swear I saw a light on the ceiling,
of her, sorceress supreme.
A hand full of bliss,
with life’s contentment, I
woke up desolate.
In the quest of knowing and not
knowing, the remembering is
what baffles me profusely.
For I shall never know
what it holds for me
and what it holds
against
my solemn
self.
In a perfect world, you are making me coffee,
just the way I like, point two five cream, and point
five sugar. It is a perfect world because I can hear
you sing and we know how you hate it. It is 7 in the
morning and we’ve woken up early because that’s
what we do in a perfect world. Love happens in
little moments in a perfect world. We collect these
mementos and god knows we have a jar filled with
these. You look at me every day and don’t wish for
anyone else and since it is our perfect world, I wish
the same. We move out of this place, we go to work,
we come back home and it is perfect. It is perfect.
Is it perfect?
I swear I saw you gag on the soufflé I made, I hear
your audible annoyance when I asked you about
your favorite anime. There are moments in our
conversations that are lopsided, flaky, downright
awkward. There are moments in our jar that are
okay, just okay. We reach out for each other’s
hands but somehow they get twisted instead
of getting entangled. It is like being handcuffed
with a tree and the tree never grows. But it’s a
perfect world so we go to sleep and wake up with
you making me coffee and I wishing for no one but
you and it’s perfect.
As she stood there, waiting.
Waiting for a sign, a reason perhaps,
I'm glued to the television, knowing
Her world is about to collapse.
The pain in her heart, is mine
too. Her eyes all cried out, staring,
directly at the camera, I can sense it
in my bones, it's obtrusive, glaring.
I hear she screamed when she saw,
the pool of blood and people oscillating.
Her whole world destroyed, in a moment,
truly vile, nauseating.
I'm a mere spectator, in this dysfunctional
world. Forcing my thoughts, evaluating.
And there she is, fighting every day,
running, crying, dying, alternating.
I move around my house, helplessly.
For I only know her pain, not understand it,
hating the world, the people, everyone,
for the crimes they didn't commit.
Will she get the justice she deserves?
I do not know, but I do know
that tonight, we'll both won't sleep,
we'll both see him, alive, breathing, a shadow.
Breathe in...
...2
...1
...Breathe out
...4
...3
...2
...1
Repeat
I remember it being green. The
color so sublime that it takes
away melange of misery. The
wallowing self in the streets
that leads nowhere. I remember
them being brown. The path so
stern that you might want to mi
-ss it but it is so hard to do just
that. It often reaches to an aban
-doned building, the cracks and
crevices are hosting a lot of
yellow within it. The kind of yell
-ow that makes you want to have
ice lollies. I remember the building
being grey. Carrying on it's should
-ers the dullness, the hate, the ugly
associated to it. The yellow tells a
different story. It doesn't care
about the green, the red, the grey;
the misery. There's blue directly
diagonal to it and in it there's a who
-le expanse of pigments. The hues
and the tints that are just wondero
-us for many but for yellow, it's
what the world is. This city is beige,
it always has been beige but if you
squint your eyes at a precise angle,
you'll see lavender falling down the
sky and everything will be fine.