Unending Nights

These are the nights that never die πŸ™‚

The right people, the right place,
Having fun, away from all stress.
A bunch of close ones, huddled together,
As the stars shine, and cool is the weather.

Playing games, and laughing a lot,
Sharing the food we’d got.
Cussing at each other for no reason,
We talked thunder, lightning, changing seasons.

And as the breeze blew strong,
Blowing our hair, quite long,
We lay there, talking about it all,
And noticing shooting stars that fall.

And as the hours passed by,
And the night started to die,
Each of us wanted time to pause,
Not wanting these moments to be lost.

But when the sun rose,
The black fading, the blue grows
We lay there silently, taking it in,
And going our homes with a smile,
A lot within.

 

A/N: So, We had a sleepover on our terrace yesterday night, and it was one of those times where I was genuinely having fun. One of those nights, which I wished wouldn’t end. And well, living away from home, I miss my friends back home a lot, so usually when I’m with people I’ve met here, I just feel that I’d rather be with my friends back home, and that I’d enjoy it more with them than with anyone else. But yesterday night was just the perfect amount of everything. And it’s sad that this happened to be the last day of the year when we could do this, seeing that we’ll be heading home soon this week. But hey, there’s three more years I have πŸ™‚

The boy who was friends with a ghost.

The title is the poetry prompt…

It’s hard to get out there,
To befriend children, and have fun.
That’s the issue little John faced,
Friends, he had none.

But did he feel sad?
No, not at all.
In fact, he was quite content,
Given his talks with the wall.

Every night past bedtime,
Once his parents had him tucked in,
He’d get back up, once they were gone,
And call out to his friend.

One moonlight night, his mother heard,
Her son talking to someone.
Enraged, she quietly peeped into the room,
And she saw him talking, but to none.

Confused for a second, she waited,
Until a white shadow appeared,
Of a boy about the age of John,
With him John walked, and in the dark disappeared.

Terrified, the mother came in,
Calling out to her son,
Trying to make sense of everything,
Her son seemed to be gone.

They called up the police,
And awaited their presence,
The parents couldn’t stop thinking
About their son’s absence.

Once the police arrived,
They were informed about the case,
And also about a ghost
To which they made a skeptical face.

And to everyone’s surprise,
John was fast asleep in bed,
He was woken up and asked about it,
His ‘friend’ was messing with their heads.

Soon, they were convinced,
The mother imagined a lot of things,
Only John knew the reality,
His friend gave him wings.

 

A/N: Writing a narrative after really long..

Today I am.

Gah, can u feel the happiness of finals week being over?!

Today I am,
A 6-year old,
My mother’s hand I hold.
Running in a polka dot dress,
Eating the birthday cake, making a mess.
Blowing the candles and laughing,
As the other kids are clapping.

Today I am,
The dog at the window,
That looks with hope, at the meadows.
Waiting for its master to come back,
And when he does, woofing with joy.

Today I am,
The broke college kid, walking down the street,
Finding a dollar bill, his happiness, not discreet.
Pocketing it quietly, he is suddenly hopeful,
Did I describe myself? I’m skeptical.

 

A/N: And I’m happyyyyyyyyy!!!!

Calm.

The end of finals week inspired me to do this lol

Leaves in autumn
Falling beautifully,
Hitting the ground,
Oh, so, gently.
And the tree losing it all
To gear up for a fresh start.
Are there any regrets from either part?
Not at all.

Waves on a beach,
Taking in sand, so slowly,
And lightly carving patterns
On it’s surface at the edges.
Serenity, is it?

Clear skies, and doves flying,
Whistling noises with the wind
Is this what peace feels like?

 

A/N: My final project for the academic year is done, and this is what freedom feels like! :’)

Trip Down Memory Lane.

Old poems of mine remind me how much I have changed, not just the writing style, but the content et cetera.

Everytime, on the radio, that song plays
To those beats my hips sway,
But this time, no arms around my waist,
All alone, I still remember those days..

Those photos of us, still living in the love,
Wish things went back to the perfection it was..

This is what happens when,
I take a trip down memory lane,

Songs on shuffle, photos in the frame,
Remind me of you all along,
Remind me you are a lost cause
And remind me why I don’t like
Trips down memory lane.

Places where we used to hang out,
And all the kisses we shared,
All of those memories remind me,
There was a time you cared..

The teddy you bought me still hugs me,
Reminds me that you once loved me,

This is what happens when,
I take a trip down memory lane,

Those pillow fights and red rose bouquets,
Remind me of my best mistake,
Remind me we were insane
Remind me why I don’t like,
Trips down memory lane..

It ended too soon, but no regrets
Felt like a dream, it had to end..
But over it I won’t fret,
Loved you like it was the end

These Memories in my heart are fixed,
Feelings right now, totally mixed
Sorting all this may take me a while,
And who knows I may see you some time

This is what happens when,
I take a trip down memory lane
Those sweet messages and long calls,
Remind me that now you’re gone,
Remind me I’m all alone,
Remind me why I don’t like
A trip down memory lane

This is what happens when,
I take a trip down memory lane,
Everything out there, seems to remind me of him,
But I got no regrets, knew it had to end,
Remind me everything is okay,
But I still don’t like
A trip down memory lane..

A/N: An old one, and I know I’m running a day late, but plis spare me, there’s too much work at hand, given that it’s finals week, and my final submission is tomorrow. Plus I’ve been sick for the past 5 days now ugh. I’ll hopefully get back on track tomorrow with 2 poems in here.

Home

Old one again πŸ™‚

They say Home is a place, a warm comfy abode,
But I’d rather say it is not a place at all..

For me Home isn’t a place but a feeling,
Home is the first person thought of when you feel scared
Home is running into your loved one, with your heart scarred.
Home is feeling at peace with two arms wrapped around you,
Home is the ticking of time when whatever is pleasing you do

Home is spilling drunken truths to someone special,
Home is seeing someone cry for they feel your pain.
Home is the scars on your wrist replaced by someone’s grip
Home is midnight kisses and waking up to breakfast and surprises.

Home is the group hug of friends after a long while,
Home is the sneaking out of house at midnight with friends
Home is those bucket lists with them,
Home is those candid pictures, texts and feelings.

Home is spending time on what you love,
Home is living life the best you can.
Home is forgetting all else for your passion
Home is love, happiness and satisfaction.

They say Home is a place, a warm comfy abode,
But I’d rather say it is not a place at all..
It’s a feeling after all.
A feeling after all.

Art.

So bring on the rebels, the ripples from the pebbles, the painters, and poets and plays πŸ™‚

They dance to the rhythm,
Composed by a musician.
His beats and melodies,
Grooving to symphonies.
And then shamelessly go ahead
Bashing a learner, a newbie,
Putting it in his head,
That he’ll never be a
Beethoven or a Mozart.
But maybe all he needs,
Is to be himself. He is art.

Admiring paintings in exhibitions,
But making sure their kids face
The same pressure and competition
Art is not a way to sustain living,
They say.
They’re right.
Art isn’t a way to sustain living.
Art is a way of living.

The writers up at 3 A.M,
Battling their inner selves.
And then having to go through the pain
Of facing people, whose words are vain.
Because they buy all these bestsellers,
And then become these preachers,
Talking about their love for books,
And conveniently disrespecting
The one who wants to add one too.

And anyone with a camera,
Can make a movie, they claim.
A bit of a failure,
And everyone is ready to blame.
Hiding behind their popcorn,
They laugh and giggle and smile.
And absolutely forget to acknowledge
The efforts of the maker, all this while.

 

A/N: Love how, when you take a different career path, or take any choice which is not generic by societal standards, everyone is all set to offer free advice, and even try to convince you to change. Sometimes, when they don’t know what you’re talking about, they’ll ask you about it, and then use that limited information to convince you how unappealing whatever you’re into, is. There is struggle in any field, so why is it hard to accept that there is the same even in all these artsy fields? Moreover, why do we want to make choices with no struggle whatsoever? Why do we need to be handed everything in a platter?