my father lived in Indiamy father is a man of many colors.my father lived in India2 years ago in Free Verse
on the nights when the moon stays asleep,
he lotions his palms with pomegranate juice.
the sugared blood pools in the creases of his
skin, staining it India’s red.
sometimes, my father scrubs his hands until
they are nothing but flesh & fruit rinds.
when he was younger—all skinned knees and pocket
knives—he must've slipped on a thousand marbles.
my father’s father was a welder who rolled and spun
steel into tiny spheres.
when he died, my father’s hands became blue and
free of pocket knives. to this day, he keeps a bag
of marbles on our mantle.
from time to time, he shakes the cool metal into
his open palms and waterfalls it back and forth.
see, this is the trouble with blue hands:
they never let go of the things that scar them.
they try so hard to be red again.
my father doesn't like whistling because
an old woman in India told him it was uncivilized.
she perched herself on the edge of the Ganges River
IndiaThe sea took'd me...India4 years ago in Free Verse
And oh my country of newlywed clouds how I remember you, dust and rain
and mud and spice in air. And in summer, baking roads and hot languages; a million
dialects, or eight hundred: I never learned you, I never will. I only loved you and I think
that is not enough, perhaps it never was, but how do I know? I know loneliness,
and how can you know that? I was a child, am a child, am something less or more now
And how can you think of beauty? Do you hear yourself? Your radios are blaring
noise; your television shows are preaching idiocy to a million people
who hear and conscious or not, listen. I've been away from you so long
that my tongue has unravelled. When I tried, people assured me
I was tongue-tied. Someone told me I spoke true, but I have never
answered you. You have never asked me to.
There's a sadness in me somewhere, now,
it could be hiding in my soul but the
india inkfor some reason shes dipped a paintbrush in ink, taking a thick oxhair brush and soaking it with a cheap replacement for india. you see, she says as she drags the brush across an enormous piece of banner paper, this is art.india ink7 years ago in General Fiction
no its not!, you want to scream at her, because something in you is rebelling against this scarring of a clean white sheet, at this waste of ink and time. your fingers ache to rescue her brush.
the curve of her lip when she smiles at you is another name for irony: you know she isnt happy with you and the smile is a lie. she keeps smiling, though, maintaining the mask as she makes a dark slash across a white corner. your hands jerk, unconsciously.
art isnt only pictures, she tells you, beaming at you pleasantly. to you it looks like the leer of a barbarian. the falling ink makes round black dots on the edges of the paper, inappropriately perfect. art is expression of emotion. any expression.
A Delightfully Obscene LifeA Delightfully Obscene Life13 years ago in Transgressive
By the time highschool ended I had already become some sort of urban legend. There were rumors of many incidents that involved me, directly or indirectly, that made people believe there was some kind of curse around me. The truth is I never did half the things they swore they had seen me do, and the other half was altered and exagerated. Nevertheless, I enjoyed the status and the power that came with it: some feared me, some worshipped me, many hated me, but all of them respected me.
Now, all legends have some truth to them, and my case wasn't at all the exception. I was always seen as the beautifulest encarnation of corruption, some kind of sick fallen angel. I posessed a number of intrisic qualities that awarded me with that mysterious and unholy condition. My mouth was lust and hatred at the same time, my eyes were just like dead sweetness, my voice was so harsh and apathetic that every word sounded like the beautifulest song. Both men and women wanted me, but not many were screwed
HetaliaxReader - Need A Hug?HetaliaxReader - Need A Hug?2 years ago in General Fiction
You woke with a start. Your breathing was heavy, eyes wide open in fear. You grabbed a pillow and stuffed your face into it, screaming and crying. To make things worse a thunderstorm just happened to be passing by. Why did this have to happen now? Just after world meeting. God, why must my brain make up such horrible things to dream about?
You were currently staying at a hotel with a lot of the other nations. Why? Because you had stopped at this place for a little stretch after the meeting. But things turned from good to bad when it started raining and to even worse when there was flash flooding. You had no other choice then to stay, along with other nations that wanted a rest too.
You started to calm down and soon the memory of your nightmare faded away. Although you knew this wouldn't be the end of it. Usually when you tried to fall back asleep after having a nightmare a even more terrifying one would take its place.
But there was a way to cure it. Too bad your younger sister wasn't
Brushing Up Against HistoryNovember 1963Brushing Up Against History4 years ago in Philosophical
I'm eight years old and sitting in class (I strangely recall that my seat was in the middle of second row, on the side away from the window), when the principal comes in to tell us that the president has been shot.
I do not know
what it means, but I know
that it scares me.
My mother meets Senator Robert F. Kennedy while he is campaigning in San Francisco and gets his autograph. I live with my father in a small town in Michigan, where every year leading up to Memorial Day, I sell paper poppies for the VFW.
blood of soldiers on the field
war has come home
I watch the news and see the body count, arranged like a scorecard. The numbers say we are winning, but one of those numbers is from our town, the only casualty that week. I don't know him, but I see his picture on the cover of Life Magazine.
I turn 17 the next month
and try to join the Marine Corp
my father will not sign
As a small-town b
Trip1Trip5 years ago in Free Verse
I speak six languages, French on the train,
Flemish in a square, money in my top hat,
I sell the hat, travel on, Italian at a Cathedral,
Hebrew on a mountain, money in my flat cap,
I travel against the sun, speak music with him.
I did not lose my treasure on the crossing
and no pirates approached our ship.
The natives are civilised, for natives;
a charming prince with a nose ring performed a dance for me.
wine buckfast lager pass a smoke man the dope shroom stash smashed
out of my head can't feel my feet the bed half a pill I'm delirious dead
Strong man and the Siamese twins dig ruts for the wheels
and the acrobat brews tea in a tin kettle.
I toss my top hat at a bear, for Mother Russia has been cruel.
And in India Kerala, the south, yes reading the Edakkal Caves,
Kutti Chattan, poems of 600 BC, love, kings, Roman ships all sailing in;
the Varthamana Pusthakam travelogue. For the BBC, yes.
A good documentary, insufficient, of c
Helping Hurting PeopleThis is a message I'm sending out to everyone in need of help with the problems, emotional and mental pains they are having. It doesn't matter who you are, what race, what kind of person you are, either you're atheist, gay, lesbian, bi-sexual, transgender, straight or what you have done. Even if you killed someone, please don't be afraid, I want to help you. If we talk I'll keep it between us, so no one else knows. You are never too far away to be saved. I won't judge you. Whether you are in pain from people, have pain on the inside, you cut yourself, or even thinking of or planning on committing suicide. It's never too late to change your mind about something. Never give up on life, even when life seems impossible. I want to help. This isn't a fake, I really do wish to help. You have a purpose, you just need to find it. If you know someone who is looking for help or needs it, tell them about me. My e-mail msn hotmail account is mentioned in the description section below.Helping Hurting People6 years ago in Emotional
I'm not "perf
BTLG- My Lavish and Kind Prince -India x ReaderBTLG- My Lavish and Kind Prince -India x Reader2 years ago in Introductions & Chapters
You felt fuzzy grass rubbing against your skin.
Waking up in some random place made you sit up in shock.
“Woah! That mirror- my wish… did it really come true?!”
You looked around to see a beautiful field of flowers and bright green grass. “This definitely isn’t my living room anymore” It smelled heavenly and as you continued surveying the area, your eyes landed on one lone figure.
The lone figure stood up from where it was sitting and come closer to you. Looking at its figure, you determined it was a female…and she looked like a belly dancer.
You couldn’t see past the red veil that covered most of her face. But her attire was just beautiful! The bejeweled establishments on her bra were phenomenal and sewn designs decorated her harem pants. She slowly took off her other veil that served as her belt and began dancing.
You were in awe on how pretty she was and when you looked down to
Waves were NoiseWaves were Noise12 years ago in General Non-Fiction
She moves her head along with the music, and maybe her feet too. It's hard to tell since her image is filtered by smoke and the lighting is so dim. White light on white sheets over white skin. So fragile, like dirty children sleeping on benches, almost worth saving. Lying around her on the bed there are some objects I can distinguish: cd cases, book, ashtray. Ashes, like she needed any more in her life, any more consumption. An ashtray and a plastic bag full of weed. Of course she's stoned, that's nothing new. It's been some time since I've last seen her this peaceful though, maybe it's because she doesn't know I'm here. The first time we got high together she told me she used to feel waves that once were noise. \"Not anymore\" she then said looking at her hands, and that was the first time I felt like hugging a grown up. She cried that night, and the following ones. Eventually I understood that it's just something she does, the same way I wash my hands every ten minutes. Not without m
Hetalia x Reader- Beyond the Looking Glass Intro~Hetalia x Reader- Beyond the Looking Glass Intro~2 years ago in Introductions & Chapters
-this is a series that will involve many different situations involving many different countries who will eventually end up with you, the beloved reader.
Please forgive the long description of your belongings, they all are important for the continuation of this story. Thank you!
Read happily and read on my young padawon -//Star Wars reference = shot//-
It was a long day from work/school. You were both mentally and physically exhausted. The only thing that kept your body moving was the motivation that your bed was eagerly waiting for you with its soft covers and fluffy pillows. Oh! And don’t forget that poster with all your Hetalia characters on it! Yes, you were a megafan of Hetalia, almost to the point of obsession; but there was one character you greatly admired. Who am I kidding? You were absolutely IN LOVE with Mr. Sexy (fav Hetalia character)!!!
As you walked to the front door of your house, and took out your keys. But sadly as you took them out of your pa
HesaraghattaBangalore: tinHesaraghatta6 years ago in Haiku & Eastern
houses lean in mass
saffron lake, perspiration
She falls for beastsRuthless winds and raging seasShe falls for beasts3 years ago in Free Verse
A link so poles apart from ease
So darkly distinctive
As glitter from dirt
To sorrowfully know, addictive....
Hacked pleasures do hurt
This bond between man and monster
So firm, so unbreakable...shakes a mad red heart
Yet so forbidden, cries pushed away as an imposter
Our tie we hold till our knuckles bleed pulled apart
Destructive beliefs and demolishing dreams
How long will my people hold my love chained to their ugly screams
But I'll never rise because I've fallen forever
So intense, so deeply...
In a hopeless feeling of adore and pain we share together
Summon giants and bulldozers to fail to pick me up cheaply
Not being much soul of an unpleasant preacher
Yet he is a creature
And to bear my dear lush of torture
Yes, he's my creature
The Crows of MumbaiThe Crows of MumbaiThe Crows of Mumbai6 years ago in Free Verse
The crows tell the story
as the story is told of that day
this way honest as a bone
in the throat
Was everything not just as it was
when, perched in tulip trees
above the street and skipping
from curb to fence, we bawled
our warnings to warn you?
Dark from the sea,
The Unwelcome returns,
we screamed Hear
how you must run
to the shrine of Mumba Devi,
deal her garlands of jasmine
and pink lotus, lay them
at her feet. Were we not crying
all we knew? Hotels will burn;
bodies fall. Do not leave
your room open your door
to no one. And when
your bodies, bloated
burnt, lay down at our beaks
what was left to do?
Starless songbirds, black
against the black of night
we said all we could;
all we wanted you to know.
VadhaI have seen two blossomings of the Kurinci flower and twenty-four black monsoons since Kalinga Magha first landed on the shore of our island Kingdom. He arrived as the rainy season ended greenery erupting from every hollow, pepper vines snaking up every tree. Cranes and peacocks drank from the bowls of mangrove roots, elephants rolled and snorted in watering holes, and the mists were slinking back to stalk the lush valleys of the Hill Country.Vadha6 years ago in Historical
The thousands of soldiers Magha brought with him trudged for days through our country's red mud, sinking in potholes and cursing their gods in all the languages of the mainland. Farmers knee-deep in sprouting paddy fields looked up as they passed in a mile-long column, and muttered to each other that war had come again to Lanka. The months of rain had swollen the rivers, and it took Magha longer than he expected to reach Polonnaruwa through the flooded river crossings.
Red Lights in CalcuttaThey trace their fingers alongRed Lights in Calcutta6 years ago in Free Verse
The cage of my captivity:
Sharp prison-bar ribcage,
Protruding through papery skin;
Jutting thrust of starved hipbones...
Their callous hands even upon
The chiseled laugh-lines
Erasing the crease
Of a time before
I forgot how to smile.
Daily, they watch the dying light
Ember out of empty eyes
And force the brunt of their power
Between once virgin thighs:
Ugly, the beauty that money can buy;
Brutal, how I have been objectified.
Once I was a girl, a daughter,
And meant to be a wife.
Our fields my family tilled,
While standing side by side;
Green fields of ginger, turmeric, and pepper
But ravaged by cruel wind and wicked water;
Then stricken barren;
By the bitter drought
My body became the more fertile way out;
Of the money-lenders' pocket.
And so my wedding bed lies empty now;
But starving mouths have been fed.
And so my blood runs with sex
And poison now
And the only light that I have left
she lives down the streettheres a girl who lives down the street; she wears bowler hats and plays the drums.she lives down the street6 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives
my parents sometimes say shes a bit odd, but i think i can see these words something behind her eyes. i think she has meaning, you know?
the boys at school call her ugly. they call me babe, but i think the girl with the bowler hats is pretty in the same way that always remembering the words to your favourite song is pretty. i feel like shes got a purpose here, you know?
i might have longer legs, but shell probably have a longer life. i may be able to make gazes hang on my lips, but she can turn words into beautiful cryptic phrases like i can only ever dream of doing. shes going somewhere, you know?
the day i wore green contacts to school, girls squealed and told me i looked beautiful. i think though, that her plain blue eyes are prettier than mine will ever be. even with her clammy hands and unplucked eyebrows; shes still more than i will ever be, you know?
PovertyIt is Sunday, and a girl is dying.Poverty7 years ago in Free Verse
You must have seen her, with cracked hands
And cheeks as hollow as her eyes, staring defiantly
At every person that passes her without a glance.
She thinks they must be able to smell it on her:
The bitter tang of metals and grit in her water
And the faint but penetrating scent of sickness.
She sells candies and paper flowers from a cart,
And stands up straight with her dress hanging
Like a sack, though it was a lovely yellow once.
Every so often as she passes her wares to a buyer,
She thinks that the petals and colorful wrappers
Look like wishes should; but she cannot have them.
She must always return to the same cramped room
And dream fitfully of fresh food, health, and comfort
While life pales from her face, like the waxing moon.
One cannot live on bread alone,
But that would be a start.
All His Milestones On FilmAll His Milestones On FilmAll His Milestones On Film7 years ago in Free Verse
Starring Sanjay Dutt as Sand and Shadow
Ta-da: his childhood came unwrapped
like his mothers parcel at the boarding school
set in hills far north of Dehli.
It has to be said he was brilliantly packaged
- in silver and stretched,
a song on religious ecstasy
played with a spoon on foil,
The projector's pur
grew coarser with each flicker.
In this cage, every feature
is a première to her, every detail
apprehended for the first time
Soot came up when the silk was torn,
up from thirteen streets in Bombay,
up like the sand when child's castle
is kicked down.
He became a creeping figure,
a shadow, a smudge,
grit on the reel.
If only she could restore him,
replace each shell on the battlements
but no. The boy is spread on celluloid like a sand angel.
Dust and a pistol are all his remains.
And in truth, she is dust,
billowing between frames.