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Happy birthdayJust as every year, the minutes
leading to midnight were pregnant
with disappointed expectations.
Expectations that carried within them
the knowledge that nothing was going to happen.
I knew those words were coming, but
they felt empty -
just like a lame "take care".
Her intention probably wasn't empty,
but words are like that sometimes.
My "Thank you" was worse,
like a vacuum sucking in the following words,
whatever genuine thing it could've been.
DawnYou sit forlorn, mist lining your faces
Your deplorable, despicable faces -
dull promise running through them
like an unobtrusive strand of hair.
The moon melts into an angelic face,
the stars come together to mend your heart.
Bolted to your seats, tired and dazed,
the perfect sunrise.
But who will mourn your loss?
How will you relinquish your pain?
There are no authors left to
write of such fatuity anymore,
for they're all drudging to pawn off their own pain,
weeping like children, carving into tree barks,
vomiting outside cheap bars, drunk,
penning away in the hope of respite.
So go home, and change that lightbulb.
There is no real dawn.
A poet's crimeI've committed a single crime, far too many times. I hid it in my pockets till it burnt my fingers. I held it inside me, like a mother protecting her child from evil. I nursed it within me till it grew, moulded it into its best form, carved it into my veins.
One morning when I woke, my head remained drenched in a darkness saturated with cries. To have held on to a poem until it finally died, escaping my veins, my pockets, my memory. That is a crime. And I have a history of crime hiding behind my ears.
PenpalYou always write, from
a country that's too far away.
You tell me of your sins,
your relationship with your brother,
your best traits in bed.
You send me coins; I picture you
a different face on each of them.
I hold one to my chest, smell it.
May be you smell like coins. Or
freshly laundered sheets.
You send me mix tapes; I listen in the bath.
I can't read or watch insects surround street lamps,
without you tip-toeing through my head.
Do you dream of unspeakable things?
Does the sound of velcrow somehow comfort you?
Do you also watch railway tracks
converge and diverge, struck by its beauty?
These are things I want to know.
With your every letter,
my fingertips beg to find your face.
Another one, another timeThe stereo is vomiting our every song one by one.
But there is a silence, thick as custard
that tells a story of
two lovers and twenty thousand loves.
You are here with me, listening too.
Climbing on to my collar bone,
licking my earlobe and teasing my every sense,
before you settle, lodged between my ribs.
I think always, of how it would be
if we stayed close enough to touch
but not kiss,
to discover what we loved and hated
before we separated.
I wished that in the whiteness of your room,
I found a space next to you,
just by your side -
to see the world
the way you saw it.
Staring at the ceiling didn't
feel the same without you.
Still, I have no regrets.
I am more fragrant now that
I recognise myself as an entity separate from you.
I reek of my own mistakes,
and bloom alone on dew-kissed magenta mornings.
But one day, we will bloom together once again,
shaming sunflowers and shutting up glottis.
You are yours and I am mine.
One day, very soon,
I will have words to put out here,
At the balconyCups of tea brimming with
fuse with smoke-rings that
leak from our mouths.
I watch them, as they escape into the
yellowness of artificially lit skies.
MuteI made love to you one night
and came back feeling as beaten
as the bus I sat in.
I held on to the frayed seat,
the weight of remorse
bearing down on me.
Staring out the window,
I felt my fingers numb.
Hidden away like a dreadful sin,
I still wait for you.
Come, suck the sweetness out of me.
Drink me, be sated.
Today, you celebrate your anniversary;
and my weakness.
CityCity of dreams
city of profligacy.
Tall buildings loom over me like
hungry vultures over a corpse
Salty waters surge at my feet,
trying to sway me, shake me, and lose my grip.
There is no poetry here.
Words that creep out of road-side flowers
and man-made fountains
shrivel up like raisins under the sun.
Rhyme that drifts in ethereal melodies
falls flat to the ground like
birds shot dead.
People walk about like
weary robots in spurious contentment.
Sweat and grease traded with
There is no poetry here.
The days stretch on like
an ocean of waste,
too vain to be salvaged.
City of dreams,
City of make-believe,
I wish I could leave.
AspirationI visited Rajan today,
nestled merrily on the patio and
shuffling his deck of cards.
His turn had come.
He lived the life of his peers envy.
Government job, lengthy marriage
and three charming kids.
The man has everything they said.
He was happy.
Every afternoon, he sauntered onto the porch
with his dear deck of cards,
asking someone for a game or two.
His wife was by his side
with a plate of pan and
the children never tired of his
story about the May of 1969.
He laughed and beamed
with all his heart,
his toothless smile all but empty.
I smiled and chatted too,
like everyone else.
After all, little does he know that I wish
for a life so unlike his -
where clothes lie folded and
nothing ever spills.
She's a WriterShe sits at her desk
Her headphones in,
The world shut out.
She bleeds for others
As words fly from
Her mind to her fingertips.
She stares at the screen,
At every little comment,
The good and the painful.
She forms her emotions
Into books and poems
To throw away the hurt.
She's a writer,
And her best weapons
Are her mind and her pen.
BetrayedI won't swallow your lies anymore
I can't stand your presence
You used to be my friend
But you're nothing to me now
And soon you'll be
Another bad memory
I won't be able to forget
Do you know what it feels like...To be lonely?
To be bullied?
To be called ugly?
To be unattractive?
To be compared to other women?
To be considered unnormal?
To be unloved even though you give love to others?
To face issues that you don't in reality know how to fix?
To think that your goal you're reaching for, is unattainable?
To feel like the cause of many people's problems?
To be held up on a high pedistal that you can't get down off of?
To realize that people don't like you based on your personailty?
To at no avail, keep up your happy and upbeatness for others?
To look at happy couples and wish that you had someone to be happy with?
To stop fighting for anything anymore?
flower petalsi know that when we touch
that my energy is yours
that we are like flowers
because at our roots
we need water and love,
we reach tall as we can
to get to the sun
and stretch our leaves
to welcome it all;
and when we touch
i know that our skin isn’t skin
too soft for this world
when it grows rough with gravel
so i invite you back to our bed,
soft with the earth
where we can lie gently
and sleep until it is time
You AgainOh, it's you again. I must admit,
The crooning has
The lies have been
And mine are like swords
It's just you and me
In this sick game
I can tell
You're pulling me in,
And I don't have
To pull you down
Sometimes, I've had
And all I see is
Then it became
I don't know
How to escape
Dark to see.
And all I can
Wonder at every
Turn I make
When can it be
SightStars in the night sky
I see beyond that and through
Greatness into darkness, I can fly
Here above the earth I can see the truth
There is an angel that will love me until I die
jackal grinMy orange peel
lips split: the beams
a deck of cards
nana’s worn porch,
and fingers weaving
through grass blades
when the light is
soft and warm.
(have you f
An artist (revised)
Staring blankly at a white sheet of paper
Can truly be an artist’s worst nightmare
An artist’s duty as its shaper
Their thoughts up in the clouds somewhere
Looking for bits of inspiration
Their eyes searching the skies
Nothing can break their concentration
Nothing can blow out the passion in their eyes
Being an artist does not always mean you are skilled
You do not need to be Picasso or Bach
It means you want to see your dream fulfilled
And that you will never give in to an art block
I Don't Come with the Edgesi.
It cries the way dragonflies leave ripples
in the rain. On days I swallow
whirlpools for breakfast and
drown with libraries for fun,
I can almost allow myself to forget
And it doesn’t want to make
me kneel on my shoulders
or pluck the weeds
from my scars;
I can see it try so hard
to be my friend.
But if I could choose
polka dots over tail lights
and sun screen over
I wouldn’t think thrice
or even once
not to blow the candles
on my grave.
That’s why I keep
the colons of analog clocks
under my tongue;
so I could keep the
figures eight of cliché’s
as keepsakes for old age.
I like to think infinities
have loopholes; tree rings
that dissolve into each other
with exhales for a caress.
And just when the tones
of lyrics would enter the
eutony of names, only then
would I drift into love.
When I wouldn’t be holding
my blood in my temples-
when all I am is a thought.
The running footsteps
we’ve come to cla
Black and whiteMy hands are pressing piano keys,
black, white, white, black, white.
You are there, sitting at a distance.
Staring into the Earth, tall grass and shadows and all,
dirt waiting to get into your nails.
The sun here is always either rising or setting.
This is today and that, tomorrow.
We have no in betweens.
Keep in Touch!
Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More