Survive with peace feathers

I just shared my plans with someone genetically close to me and I faced an intense feeling of being robbed by them . I could see anxiety hitting me straight away and yet I was yelling out the logic behind this project and why it should be accepted the way I conveyed. The conversation was in the beginning of the loop where they managed to scrap out innumerable holes and my hopes where striving out a way from it. It just turned up from a sourceful share to a ridiculous argument where I was the one who chose to be a moron. Believe me my worth of standing there and confessing with my breathing that I still have to play alive was vanished and I was doubting my originality. Why am I not comprehensive enough to make it a sure shot idea! That this is my space and something like this is so naturally favourite here so I wish to be a certain way. I know and I care about the process of your concern towards me but ,shouldn’t this phase of energy revert back the same way!? Why was I supposed to transfer my thinking about Rainbow to be a dramatic one? Why can’t I just get into the idea of being one, when all the physics lab was carrying a prism by the way. This entire toil and act of disguised discouragement is actually a poetry compilation in my life and someone has just forgotten to rhyme with me while I, at the same time have skipped alot of words and no brain exercise is helping me do well with it. I don’t think I am weak or wrong but the real instinct is making much worse than the crime scene depicted in novels that I have been reading , and so I am planning murderers against them that will protect my sanity of being vibrantly aware of what it looks like when someone snatches it away from you. I have totally lost this chance of being nice and alive at the same time when all I am turning into is a pack of stupidity that answers and questions in it’s own space and is constantly being affected by the talking around. I am just not able to feed my cells what peace, harmony or happiness look like so I am developing a foreplay for this that communicates opposite of my mental well being. I feel jealous several times in a day, I feel like catching down a bird, tear it feathers apart and ask about what is your will at this particular time. Would you not hurt me with your nails or maybe just bite me hard with your beak if I wish to have a walking friend made of hollow body and a beauty just like dove? Wouldn’t I be thrown out of this affirmation game where I choose to wish at the cost of someone’s life!?
Would you be granted a sinful creature or would that be rewarded as an act of defence, and oh please just utter it “yes” loudly enough so that it could allow you to breathe throughout in my hand . I would love to push you in infinite sea of horizons expecting to be gifted the same side in return.! Fluttering my rudeness, bluntness to an act of complete allowance where I am not a victim pleading, convincing my feathers but just to well versed with the things I have, maybe crafting peace with a body looked dead.
-isha mridul

My deflated picture

So it was the same room where I completely lost my patience and couldn’t make a single move on anything. It happened because I was totally convinced by the fact that nothing great will appear on this side and I had to believe in this fear which was out of the box and straight on my face. The chanting of something that was similar to a tiny sense of mine where I wanted to settle into the abundance of vacuum and it should be more vacant than ever before so that I could embrace the idea that I have a body which holds me. A substantial substance of whatever it takes to be me ,be it my sins, sorrows or that graduation day in the college where I had an opportunity to celebrate something that was ending . Standing still, straight infront of the door, which encourages only moving forward and sliding back would only make me weak, and academically I have an attempt to make it just better than what is supposed to be failed. I wish for that one time being a group that counts me worth and important in a headcount, because last year picnic pictures don’t have me.
I was lost for a moment and I couldn’t feel my need. The photograph turned pretty well, and I did make a divine impression on the floor as my water bottle was rolling down somewhere and a thirsty throat and an approaching hand managed to hunt it out. Emptying bottle and it’s uselessness tied hand in hand to my identity while some sort of teaching popped up saying that “one should be thankful and should value little gifts and gestures of life”.
As per quoted, mislead, misheard or might be mistakenly heard some happy head from it’s happy mouth called for my name, wondering to find the owner of this bottle, and at the time of this reward I was lost. Dribbling a football, and cheering up for a match that was about to finish with it’s obvious winner and probably the only one , clapping and glitters that were on it’s way to shower on me, My brain heard something similar to the name that echoes like me and the challenge was to stop the tournament, lose this winning round and turn back to a life that actually for the first time wants me. Genuinely ,at this frame where I am at the most ridiculously fortunate edge to stop and turn back smiling expecting a face, a friend that still remembers me before I turn into yellow shaded memory! I kicked the ball, it rolls on, I stayed back watching it rolling, and the voice comes closer as I could feel victory and wanting preceding at the same time, while one thing changed it’s side and skips to my permanent misfortune mission. I turned back, my classmate running ,panicked, and all disgusted ,panting loudly and screaming something that ends up in consistently crushing concern into cry for my wage chase. The ball must have reached the court, I might be a winner this season, or maybe I just skipped a toss and life stays unconventionally same for me.
It was deflated!
And I was left with a bottle with no water, a deflated ball that was thrown and ordered a picnic photograph that didn’t click me.
-isha mridul

In the eyes

Last time when I entered this room it was way more energizing and exuberant . The empty, hall, wall and the galleries were reverberating words and idea that I ever dreamt of. The photo frames were happy and stairs all lit up . That left corner from the front gate had a huge flower vase and lilly was the smell that clings to me all over. The little lamp, the green carpet, newspapers on the floor and the huge cup of tea that smokes out aroma of ginger, tulsi and cardamom. A perfect blend and substitute for healthy life. From the right side two steps before the balcony gate, is a room. A black door and golden lock, some music and murmuring could be heard and a knock! This left unanswered and I slowly unlock the door, peeping in the stories and melodies of me time of my love. Turning back, and locking the door, infront of me was a choice of abandonment, a long lost relationship of leaving everything behind when everyone involved in corners also wanted to combine with my sweat. The skin smell, a flavour of home than just the dust of ceramics or brittle bonds with glass panels.
The shady curtains that were hives in hide and seek, to the center of the room where I created a valley with wax crayons. Like exactly here below the night light, all golden and my blue, yellow, green crayons drew a rigged triangular series of hills and mountains all in the same range, and from middle of those dribbles down a very deep blue water wave. I couldn’t complete the scenic template where the sun did rise up or settle in . It was just a waterfall through the gaps of five series mountain ,no clouds, no rain, no Rainbow. I wish I could have tried and cried for my turn, from the people standing infront who gifted me this set of 14 was crayons. For this instance, my wish was overpowered by the stance of the fake whitewashed walls. I remember I the days after every day went on to depress my heart, chop done my choices and re examined each bit of biological responses to a planned witty show. I was cruel, filthy and guilt of this glitch was some random evil from the next door. The framework outside the dry garden and these empty galleries were more empathetic to me, my humanity and sanity was given a chance here. Behind the photographs of happy festivities. No interactions between us, me and my moronic friends in loneliness .
I know why I didn’t shout about the thoughts that make me feel better, but every time I turning more stubborn. This was all alot subtle until and unless I went sobbing and panting ,hiccups and my entire space chocked up. There were faces in my head, voices in my ears and rigorously continued conversations, asking and quoting my every worth of my shades to hair fall this day. I smashed up all in a little area of my conscious body and walked out, somewhere into some random death of hope.
Here I come back, to the same face, with some immeasurable pile of compunction, on the alternative street, same city and a three storey building that allotted me a room and I could commemorate the visit of abandonment again. I recollect the chained memory and my muted response to them. My eyes were shut open and all the grieve that were caught inside, stamping an impression of my gratitude that were crushed down to failure, helplessness and anxieties of all times.
-isha mridul


Through a straight lane,
this side stands my feet,
and fists that catch hold every lifeless leaves, from a tree
that last year shared and packed seeds and flavours of tangy tantrums
Where I jumped to fetch the most unrealistic amount of them.
My share of win
and wooden attempt to fall back failed
just to bring out buds along.
The ignorant idea of nurturing a sapling or building a mud house,
flowers and bees that thankfully settled around the next fenced area , and,
I freaked out to caterpillars that curles in,
Exactly here, below the shade basking with the right amount of sun.
With all my intentions to walk by freely,
I invite so much of vacuous voices that puzzles to me daring my deathbed
with a clueless crime along with a strong sense of being pathetically lost!
While this conquered my left hemisphere of brain
and the right limbs refuse to obey it’s orders,
it scripts some cinematic shots of me
in my right hemisphere of brain
and prints out a picture with specific sutures and stature
that willingly victimized my presence .
A little wave ,
and it tangles branches of the this giant tree ,
the inner circle of my skirt flutters in laugh, uniting in like some comical dispute.
No, I don’t have any other issues apart from the injury that once left me moved to a change,
tousled and tossed with an underrated pair of hands and fingers that keeps moulding minimalistic monotone.
An arch and an arch again!
Dabbling every inch of skin to love,
attracting cheers to the agony,
With a synchronized steps of learning how to lose the tight ends of dreaming.
For a moment,
this face starts looking into the most deferred passage of making arch,
from the archives that carves out an artistic architecture of astonishingly stupid geometry of heart in love.
A misleading question and answer about the process that leaks from the edges of the delusional design,
taken into consideration for a bluff and used for an excuse to cover up the corrupt conscience .
Like a gradual inclination for memories that walks in, with its evanescing escapes, exits,
yet leaves behind remnants of a recurring solitary
with vague and bemused habits of life .
-isha mridul

My uncertain femininity

My uncertain femininity

Behind the curtain and locked up doors
fused bulbs and dark times gear up more,
I wish to be quite and wishper some chants
that uninvited guest followed me to the corner ,
just a few step away
and a hand distance apart,
some dirty talk and flirt surrounds my fear. No the scene had some cinematic moments,
flowers with roses and hand weaved raisins,
chocolates, perfumes and laces pinned on gifts,
hand in hand and wine to be sipped.
Soft spoken words and honey kissed hours,
red, pink, violet and pearls to offer the spark .
My half waxed leg and maxy dress,
quarter slit open and some shimmering glamour ,
sleeves chopped off and sliver breast top, padded bras and Clive Christian drops.
I have no answer what makes me roll out,
sex appeal was never for shout,
looking pretty maybe was a choice this time,
but lot of cover ups to merge with the shine,
the dress drolls down below the knee, Charmeuse plates , and ribbon flowers,
a sexy bow and floaty stars .
Just then we moved away,
chairs, and glasses and my consent had changed it’s way,
it spills down and drives to a corner,
liquid makes it way while kissing the sloppy hover.
I refused to be kept in a room,
bit away just absorbing the presence of love that collides
The talk went on and on chest I heard a beat,
little painful one.
What makes you worried for being undressed here,
waxing and maxy was here to be on an easy gear.
Just slide this out from your left arm shoulder once,
and all of our skin will bond in with sequence.
Oh! the love of emotions and feel,
lust and burst into the colour of romantic ideals.
I pushed myself with my panting pulse,
the love of life was creating a panicky thunder,
I lost the seductive soul within,
some shadows shivers and
all pierced my pale yellow skin.
The touch the words and the aroma died,
I cursed my senses that dreamt of a sweetheart.
The whole picture throws me to a barren land ,
though I came here with buds of intimate bent.
I doubt, I doubt what stopped me and scared my spine,
the closed doors doesn’t seem to speak but wants to remind,
a long drop story of hairy hand, dark big curtains and on dusky den,
I do have watched many naked names,
but this femininity is now a corrupted shame.
-isha mridul

On a passive level of life

On a passive level of life.

For a moment I could’ve embraced blank and nothingness around,
hitched to faces and spirits that talks about believing in the cosmos profound , my vibes interrupted the slow wind,
and feelings signal a mysterious grin.
the turbines switched to a little high,
grasses ,
flowers and the red cloth in the corridor flutters in sigh.
A move of relief and emanating blessings from top,
my hair wishes to braid like a snowflake pop,
the second last finger of my left leg,
got bit pink and itches in, bit tries to manage.
the gulmohar tree showers all leaves, petals from buds and a soft white beam .
I could see the big blue sky,
too much luck was turning me blind,
I miss the tears and empty nights,
atleast I joined stars and designed galaxies upright.
Short of words and languages I know,
is this an okay way to grow.
I hide myself from faces I make,
no shadows wanna walk with my dry lake,
I brush my cheek to get it red,
no blood in days when hormones drop to dead.
In a center of this world,
where poles apart are my worth,
I talk with echoes that answer my constants in breathe burping from forth.
In the frills of myself I wear a casual fear, little hemming on the shoulders and roses that look so near,
I search for thorns and muddy stems,
gale of gossip from the seven layered heaven.
I jump a little more than standing on spot, the distance expands like hopes mend in bloodshed clot.
With millions of words that turned me pause
to actions in aches that refused to collapse in a square shaped area of goodness slab,
I sleep in random open mood where wishes waves in curved lined stacks.
Do you get this numb notion,
smiles through skin and chapped cells in motion,
the cracks and dry drips in thin,
doesn’t demand anything else less than a brin,
some touched by lotion of chemical cones, while some wait for concerned noon.
-isha mridul

Negotiations with the past events

Negotiation with the past events.

Of all the squares in the brain cell,
some photographs lost their print,
I know they had some evident concerns
yet all characters talk in hint.
The purpose was to cherish them,
I pulled out knots that were hard,
It throttle my senses to them hate all,
Where the closet lead innocence retard.
A single run out of the crowd and a
clock that keeps haunting me to delay ,
the rush you need to keep yourself before had stopped running anyway .
The strategy of this strange thing is that some sort of memories do come and go, but no hands come to hold me tight,
neither Rainbow pops up after a heavy flow.
Nor my anger was served right.
I am creating a turmoil around me containing reactions from the past,
to the actions that covered my view of presence and counted me to burn in blast.
The entire rage is directed to be one with intention to be thrown on floor,
I have no idea of what’s wrong in getting away with the saddest tour.
Limited sky and all good posts,
what makes negativity plunging in dark holes.
A matter of self and it’s conciliation with trade to behave
of all the past that comes by,
only my profile seems to engage.
I’m stuck too much on the inside that,
even the love doesn’t heal me anymore,
a little bruised down my ankle and I quit to walk next four.
My perception is questionable as to what makes this as sin, the push to a blind fall, or
a heavy merry go round call,
some candies of my taste or the lipstick that was stolen by mistake.
I hold a blank palate of lips, eyes and nose , each haired inches want to say it’s story before this birth wishes for a close.
A continuous screen of being well behaved ,
to draw a scenic mountain and
to wish to be on intelligent grade.
I lost my gratitude and bagged with attitude to feed my worth,
a simple mind to talk it’s core,
was named selfish and a mean headed robber.
Nothing was ever left with my tears,
little hands that got red and scared,
my family thinks I’m demon too,
what would you expect from an echo that’s so rude.
I look back every year and wait for my retort that nobody could hear,
I am irritated this side, wanna console my soul and offer this personality a ride.
I sit back while planning infront,
I’m forgetting my memories while forgiving has yet not begun.
-isha mridul

The issue is still the same as
only the scenes have shifted from the usual frame,
some photographs have grown to memories
while relationship drains out in rain.
What driftes from smooth to rough
where did happiness chooses it’s door,
all that sympathy and love that was blooming some while,
are now all diffused in useless chors,
some lumps of sugar is here in the coffee and,
we have recently sipped the lemon leaves, no regrets about the problems of today, but why do the faces look so demean!
I’m already chocked to alot of casualties , strangulated lungs and stretched out nerves so feasibly,
to the moon and to twinkles what are the those deep cut wrinkles?
What brings me the real reason,
intuition, diversion or half open inversion.
To some journals that have explained my choice
the victim involved is so well poised, behind the book and on photograph tops, some script and
scribbles that define my soul talk,
each time I feel the herd rushing in slapping my skin and calling for whine.
Is it totally some fictional phase of growth with just a few pages and all the hard core. I am convinced with my sheer styled specter,
tiny holes and everything to filter.
gratifying my image as I did the most,
all politeness and sensitivity with the unknown host,
I switched to hiring my angel on top, bribed the demon to play a smart swap,
I have clinged my chaos into the claws of cunning men,
humanity is disturbed under this dark den, responsibilities and risks is an alternative way
I turn off the agenda and pinned superstitions all day.
Do I really need to calculate standards of life,
because prayers in huge halls didn’t multiply to materialize.
-isha mridul

Bright side

She planned meeting her friend this eve, and so scripted some professional style to be shown there. It’s been a while and she has no work update on her resume while the mental strength graphics has formed a dynamic relationship with all the ups and downs. She’s has of course grown up a lot but the shoot still tricks her to stop and budding this time whereas the roots within are engaging into depth. She was lying on the bed when her default calender settings pop up to a notification sound that flashes something as the last day. Something sort of a deadline.
She gazes the phone screen and the window infront that builds up a silhouette of her. The science reflections amazed her this time on a real level and she just wanted to be a part of thsi damn creation that was involved and inspired by her own body standing there. A moment of this dinky happiness half the way to smile she saw this sharp reflection of her phone screen. And a bright dot on the ceiling. This was just something magically hell happened here, and she totally forgot the reason she why did she touch the phone.

Chasing the incessant move of this reflective dot, her phone rings again . “Notification from the calender, seriously!” “God !Do I have a social life?!” And she continues to mumble her off track regular life which was gradually getting high on anxiety and low on nagging about the situation. After a long analysis she decoded the reminder that she’d set to get in with some formal tasks. She was yet not sure which formal project was she supposed to take care of, and just then a mail popped up saying that, she’ll be getting a voice call from the tarot card reader and she’s required to get ready with some of her personal details.
“Ohkay! that’s cool” and she picks up a gaudy sweatshirt and slides out a fancy look for herself. Hours went by trying to patch up with a happy face and bedizened with all possible positivity on the screen, waiting for the call. Don’t know how but she had read voice call as ‘video’ call and was surprisingly holding this misread notification to be the actual one. The course of manifestations and to attend all good vibes was now cheating on her senses. You know the stack of anxious people and how they function!
The call didn’t come and it was a considerable amount of awful experience that hits her.

From the cords of life to the last edge of the spinal cord.
She faces a contemporary betrayal on the very practical aspect of her initial relationship with being alive. She felt cornered and ignored and ‘not a worthy ‘ to be taken on either side of the conversation. This was extreme! In middle of all this, the Mobile battery drastically reduces to the alert level. She pins in the charger and the phone rings., she looks at the screen and creates the very same flash dot on the ceiling deciding the fate of the caller while adding a bit more considerate reason of her presence.
-isha mridul

Smoked smile

The third drawer from the last shelf ,
rough edges and dust ,
amidst the cotton cloth, with a dried flower and raisins that were sour. Chocolate boxes and a tissue paper,
folded with markes of some half lived memories.
A span of time that survived the fears of future that was settled by the side to be left .
all abundantly abandoned.
To the crowd with overthinking faces
and to hearts that is critical to curse and believe in betrayal.
Next to the mess is a half lived dairy,
and pens and ink marks,
some poems and journals that were the dark day saviours
to my shallowness and shades .
Ripples in eyes and some scratch out here on the knees,
a flashback of feelings and weakness again in some synonym for sympathy .
It’s all a greed to happy happenings
that has always drifted away
from the actual basic behaviour of life. Why is it that the construction of survival is just a half way to crime.!?
Nothing brings along a security to self adjust a moment of loss
neither access it to the inner core.
Rather it makes it worse every time you come across it,
and each time a little shorter than before. In a corner of my great days that were already shrinked down,
just where the heart initiates the pump
and within seconds I’m in for a life again, and
the breathing takes it more seriously to carry it on.
Don’t know what it takes to ,
maybe just another series of taking in the air,
probably that’s the only section of the outside I’m allowing in.
And it’s turning to be real for a while.
Of all the times I cried with faces
for spirits where I choose to surrender it all, no dome of echoes,
neither graves that settle in well.
The baggage of guilt and inferiority and love that is forced upon me
to deliver a great timeline.
I refuse to start this all again
and wish to be quite amongst the shapeless smoked smile.
-isha mridul