Blood Red (28 of 30)

The red flowers move
with the wind- they are vibrant
like blood on bedsheets.

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Note to Self (24 of 30)

I scrawl little poems on notepad sheets and
pretend this is what real poets do.
I write notes to myself about mental health
that I don’t even need, I invalidate myself sometimes
just for the perks of the narrative.

Is this what real poets do?
I have been hiding my poetry behind my back,
I’ve been calling it rambles while you,
you call it poetry. You call it beautiful.
I call it a mess.
Is it creative to not market yourself? Or is it just stupidity?
Is it healthy to write or am I just
stuffing words into my throat and telling myself it’s food?
When was the last time I ate well?
My stomach hurts.

Note to self: this is poetry.
Note to self: you eat less.
Note to self: you’re a poet.
All of these statements make me sound
like the manic pixie dream girl image
I’ve been cultivating.
None of them are true.
This is not poetry, this is a shard of glass
aimed at your heart. This is a confession
I can’t make face to face.
I’m sorry for sending you poems in bad handwriting.
I’m sorry for hurting more than I should have.
Do real poets apologise?
Or do they just write it down as a reminder
of something they’ll always forget to do?
I’ve been scrawling words on notepad sheets
and calling it poetry. How much
time is left before someone calls me out on it?

Baby, I’ve never actually been inspired in class.
I just thought that’s what I’m supposed to do.

Like this, this is essentially poetry isn’t it?
An apology to an elusive second person,
coupled with self criticism, this
must be poetry. This has to be what real poets do.
I’ve been writing notes to my self for
far too long about things I don’t need to know.
I’ve forgotten how to separate myself from my fiction-
Note to self: you are real.
Note to self: you might not be a poet, but you still matter
Note to self: get over yourself.

If You Left (Petrarchan Sonnet) (23 of 30)

If you left me now, how would I react?
Denial might wrap its arms around me,
whispering sweet nothing’s; maybe I’ll flee.
My frail self could break – no longer intact.

I could wither; I could decay in fact.
I might beg you to take me back, to be
my lover again, and you’ll be beastly;
mocking me. Truly, you’ll have an impact.

Alas, this is all simply a nightmare,
hopefully never to occur, just my
imagination causing me to cry.
When I’m with you, I can breathe – there is air.
You would never leave, you make me fly high
With you, I am free; I never despair.

Practicing Soft (21 of 30)

I can practice being soft.
I can practice shrinking into myself till
I dissipate in the heat of your glance,
I can practice being palatable.
I can practice till I master the coquettish look,
till I master looking like an object, till
I master forgetting myself,
I can learn how to be soft.
I can learn how to agree with every
word you say, how to wear
whatever you like, how to
do whatever you like,
I can be soft.
I can chip away at myself till I am no longer harsh,
I can change my personality like a dress, I’ll
make it match your eyes, I’ll make it match your tux,
I’ll make myself simply complement you.
Find the complete poem at Germ Magazine

Love; Not At First Sight (20 of 30)

Love at first sight seems to
be a widely debunked myth, but what about
love at first conversation? Love at first kiss? Love at first class in the morning?
Love at the grocery store, helping you pick
up your groceries, love
at a club?
What about love at work, love
at school, love in a restaurant?
Love probably isn’t at first sight.
Love is the second sight, the
glance thrown over a shoulder,
the best friend.
Love can be so many firsts,
so many variations of the well
known first site, what about those?
Let’s talk about love online, love
between pages, between bedsheets, between
flights. Let’s talk about love
as a friend, as an enemy,
as a boss, as a stranger.
Let’s talk beyond the generalisations, because
when I first saw love, it
was not at first sight, but at the millionth one.
When I first saw love, it was sitting next to me,
it was laughing, it was adorable, and
it was definitely not where I expected it to be.
I had been looking for love in coffee shops and concerts,
in cute boys and first dates, I had
been looking in all the wrong places.
Because love, love is not at first sight no matter
how many times we wish it to be,
love isn’t convenient, love isn’t
easy. Love is outside the generalisations, love is
in the blind spot, love
is everywhere you forgot to look.
So, open your eyes first.
Look at the stars, look at then shine,
look after your friends, look at life
and pay attention to its minute details, pay
attention to the bigger picture,
pay attention to your life.
Look at yourself, look at your
goals, look at what you want, because
love is not at first sight, love is only present
after you find it for yourself.

Fools (19 of 30)

Your lips linger on mine,
just a second longer than
something that should’ve meant goodbye, and
now there’s no stopping.
That second cost us the next hour;
our arms and legs are intertwined as
our minds think only about our bodies,
we are foolish.
There we were on the brink of a farewell, and
now here we are, sharing a bed
the next morning.
If only we could look at each
other when we weren’t overcome by desire,
maybe this could have worked.
But we can’t, so instead here
we are every other week promising
to never see each other again
while succumbing to sheer desire;
we are foolish, I say,
even as I give in once again,
even as I make sure my lips
linger a second too long,
even as I moan.
I am foolish.
I come back each time, hoping it’ll
be more than this but it never
is, I guess I just can’t
keep away, I guess I’ve lost control;
I am foolish, but
atleast every time we fall back
into this routine, I am satisfied.
Atleast I get to taste your lips once more,
atleast I had a good time.

Us (18 of 30)

We have built each
other up and
watched each other come
f
a
l
l
i
n
g
down enough times to know
that no matter what,
we will always exist best
around each other, because
we m  v   to different beats,
o   e
I’m s l ow and s t e a d y, while
you’re too much of a fastincoming wave
Guess we provide a good contrast
to each other.

Reading (16 of 30)

Many people have often
asked me why I read and
it is because of the feeling;
this feeling.
This feeling of being lost
in a world that doesn’t
exist the same for two people,
This feeling of loving
characters that you’ve only
read about so deeply that it
can move you to tears, it’s
the feeling of empathy.
Read the complete poem at Germ Magazine