ivycblvd

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the holy trinity: the father (fuck it we ball) the son (it is what it is) the holy spirit (to be cringe is to be free)

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The sketch that remembered me back

(and how i realized i am still there)

Today, I picked up a pencil. After almost a year, my pencil touched the paper again; and for a moment, i felt like the sketch missed me too. at first, i thought i might have actually lost the ability to create- but it’s all intact. my hand still knew what lines to follow. my fingers still curled instinctively around the pencil like it was muscle memory and dragged my strokes into curvatures only my hands could trace without looking, like it was destined to come out as a stroke strong enough to have a personality.

kuch toh log kahenge, logon ka kaam hai kehena chhodon bekaar ki baaton me koi, beet na jaaye rehna.

But there’s this weird, unshaken feeling inside of me, like the leftover echo of something that left too quietly- almost invisible. then it came, that ghost of a thought that keeps chanting: “your passion died” maybe i did. maybe it drowned quietly and completely in a corner of my room where sunlight doesn’t reach. (and i almost believed it. almost.) because the truth is, these days, i am afraid of blank pages. my mind is blanker than that. i avoid mirrors, and silence and people who remind me of the version of myself that once dreamed loudly and without apology. when i was younger, i didn’t wait for a muse. i was the muse. i didn’t seek validation- i barely understood the concept. i created because it was inevitable. but now, it feels like every stroke, every word, every decision i make comes with the question: “will this make me enough in someone else’s eyes? will this be enough? will you be enough?” it’s exhausting- the constant performing. this exhausting theatre of being liked.

Adulthood feels like paying rent for existing. i used to be mindlessly, beautifully, naively myself; before i knew how adulthood claws its way into your chest without a warning and makes everything feel like a transaction. a job. a role. a responsibility.

tu abse pehle, sitaaron me rahi thi kahin, tujhe zameen pe, bulaya gaya hai mere liye.

sometimes, i wonder if i even belong here because today, all i feel is no sense of belonging. not to my art. not to my thoughts. not to this moment. not just here, but anywhere.

i have forever been longing for a home- not made of bricks, but of belonging. and maybe this city isn’t always soft, but it’s all i can call home. not because it embraces me, but because it knows how to let go- quietly. like a lover who memorized your name but never dared to say it out loud.

there’s something about the sunsets here; especially the ones that spill orange and pink across the sky right before the monsoon creeps in like an old song you thought you forgot. how the light reflects off the edge of the sea like it knows your name. like it’s seen your worst and stayed anyway.

rimjhim gire saawan, sulag sulag jaaye mann, bheege aaj iss mausam, lagi kesi yeh agan.

and the ocean- it never fails to arrive. like clockwork. like comfort. like a friend who doesn’t ask questions, only listens.

“samandar humesha special raha haina Bombay ke liye?”

maybe that’s why i never leave. not for the people, not for the traffic, not for the rent that swallows up your peace- but for the sea that never asks you why you returned; because even if nothing else stays, the waves always do. and for now, that’s close enough to home.

the city keeps building too. everyday a new layer, a new promise. the city that’s made up of all sleek curves and borrowed land- feels like the city trying to rewrite itself. stretching its limbs between chaos and calm, skimming so close to the sea it almost feels like it’s in conversation with the waves. like it’s saying. “look, i’m still becoming.” and maybe so am i. it reminds me of a version of myself that tried to rebuild from rubble.

but some part of me aches watching the shoreline change. one that’s built on forgetting; one that held fishermen’s children and salt-breeze lullabies. and in that transformation, i see a reflection of myself- constantly repaving, constantly adapting- becoming something i didn’t ask for still unsure if this is the version that finally gets to stay.

These days, i wait longer before calling someone home. i’ve been evicted too many times. but after i do, i find out i was just renting the place- unknowingly- and i have to take off again, along with all my belongings. if my belongings don’t have a place, then i can’t even complain of not belonging anywhere. people come and go like seasons- sometimes sweet like mangoes in May, sometimes abrupt like the first June thunder.

aanewala pal, jaanewala hai, ho sake toh isme zindagi bita do, pal jo ye jaanewala hai.

“you have a promising future” do i though? do i ever let go of this yearning and sit in silence without spiralling over my thoughts? do i ever let go of the fact that sometimes the love you need is right there in front of you you- you just need to be chosen. some days, i wonder: will i ever be chosen- not as an option, but as an answer?

i feel like an artefact in a museum at an auction- rare, misunderstood, and always one bid away from being adored. but what if i’m too priceless to be purchased? what if love can’t afford me? regardless, i want to be chosen. not like a trend. not like a seasonal fragrance. but like old song lyrics that you never forget even if you haven’t heard them in years.

ajeeb dastan hai yeh, kahan shuru kahan khatam, yeh manzilein hain konse, na voh samjh sake na hum.

you think love is in the little things- but how little are those things until they turn into a bare minimum? how little is that bare minimum until it turns into basic human decency? how little?

it’s the littlest of things that anchor me back- a pencil. the smell of rain hitting concrete. catching myself humming songs i grew up overhearing- songs that smell like my nani’s house, like lifebuoy soap, like agarbattis before school. i used to make art because it poured out of me. now i hesitate even with a sketch pen in hand. my art supplies are enough to open a stationery shop. yet all that comes to my hands stops right before i ever try to create with them. sometimes the rawest form of art feels uglier to me than the acne on my face. (i think i’m uglier than my insecurities.) sometimes i think they’re the only parts of me that stay. humans don’t stick around like pimples or dark spots. you wish they would. but they always leave- so now i leave first to protect myself from the hurt but it’s still inevitable. i’m a museum of all the things, people, and places i’ve ever loved. i’ve spent my whole life running from abandonment. but somehow, it’s abandonment that always finds me.

lag jaa gale ke fir ye haseen raat ho naa ho, shayad fir iss janam me, mulakaat ho naa ho.

i keep loving in ways that leave bruises. i keep caring like it’s a language only i remember. is caring a curse or devotion? i don’t know anymore. i don’t want to know anymore. it’s enough to make me miserably melancholic about everything. i romanticize everything now- the sorrow in joy, the ache in sweetness. like my brain can’t feel peace without chaos overshadowing it. it’s messed up like that. maybe that’s what it means to survive here. to grow roots in a city that never promises to remember your name. to find meaning in a line from a song, a chipped kulhad, a stranger’s laugh.

to realize that even the city forgets you, and maybe that’s what caring does- it ruins you gently. but still, i care. still, i sketch. still, i stay. maybe that’s enough. maybe you are.

– 𝒗𝒆𝒆𝒌𝒔𝒉𝒂 (like the sunset. like the sea.) 0054 // 300525

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no because same

i’m craving It (physical affection & intimacy)

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Would you listen to my voice? or would you rather be speechless?

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poetry contents

would you kiss me now if I asked you to?

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would you kiss me now if I asked you to? - veeksha

in this reality, you and i are together. you and i are living. in this reality, you make me feel wanted and make this worth living for. in this reality we forget about our pasts and we are our only presents, (gifts from each other).

in this reality, you teach me how to accept people and not hurt myself in the process (you). do you think humans are a misconception too or do you feel that humans are misunderstood concepts?

i want to want you. i want to be free with you (skinless, raw, whole, soft, natural, beautiful) we're sitting so close together, i feel your warmth radiating on my tan skin. i resist to touch you, feel you, devour you, smother you. your eyes are the finest shade of chocolate brown I've ever witnessed and I think I might want to eat them.

would you kiss me right now if I told you i want to love you but somehow can't? would you kiss my aching thoughts till I went limp and lost track of time? would you love me too if you could? (please say yes, I want you to)

–veeksha🍰 (in this reality, we are together)

[ivycblvd]

The ancient moon lights across the frozen plain, but it is now too faint for lovers to sense its comfort.

[ivycblvd]

poetry contents

Exquisite Pain

October and you-

Two Ghosts and Absolute Remembrance

All These Waves

Escaped With Him

things that dont last forever

“what if” i die?

Absence of my Presence’s Essence

poets and/or he(art)s

birthday wish(es)

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the idea of being reduced to my essence and drifting away, weightless and unencumbered by the wind.

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I’d like to shadow you for today and until tomorrow comes and becomes today, again.

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birthday wish(es) - veeksha

you tested my heart if it calls out your name, yet you pretended you never heard it while it screamed for you. Your fingers encircled my throat, shrivelling the cords there. No matter how consumed I am, the voices in my head keep me in 'zoned out' mode since I let them to shout. My bias plays a lonesome tune about a girl who secretly wets her pillow before going to sleep. You enjoyed my sweet analogies until you used your crooked teeth to draw horrible lies on my body. Maybe I was the only one, but we exchanged our credulity for something much more grieving than a tragedy. I tormented you more than your shadow, avoiding you from hypnotizingly dazzling dandelions that could whisk your light away, making you wheeze, because you prevented the sunlight know your secrets. Where my ashes are scattered throughout this wetland, I no longer know how to drag my feet across it. I linger at our cemetery of memories and blush over the freckles you praised. I attempt to write down numerous things concurrently in my beloved journal, which suffocates my inner monologues. I grasp you between my feeble fingers while your ghost floats around me like a film of water reflecting the colours of our phases and twists the story of our im(perfect) yet melancholy polaroids.

– 𝒗𝒆𝒆𝒌𝒔𝒉𝒂☕︎ | 3:21 | 290623

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i would stitch poetry out of my bad days, trying to convince myself that it'll be alright, always. alone but not lonely, because i have you by my side.

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i drown amidst these crowds getting lost in my own melody.

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poets and/or he(art)s - veeksha

They knit your emotions together delicately into lacework with an elegance hitherto unseen by mankind. poets describe the way the sun rises over the horizon or how you shatter my heart. poets scream your anguish till the ground trembles. poets write about the stars twinkling, taking photos of you from above, or winking sleepily. writers marinate words in magic before eating them uncooked.

they write about how my lungs defy gravity every time you looked at me.

poets write about the meteor shower without feeling it once, what you hope for when you see a shooting star. poets write about how you see her. they write about how the waters rage and flip, much like your heart does when it smiles looking at me.

her smile has inspired the poets. poets surround her grin with phrases that elicit emotion. poets write about their inner monologues. they write about your vulnerabilities, which are stitched into your skin. they create an abstract opacity, an emptiness, and a force. in the name of love, poets utter incomprehensible phrases. they adore. they write about love as the most powerful force that has ever existed. they create a complete universe while writing about love.

– 𝒗𝒆𝒆𝒌𝒔𝒉𝒂☕︎  280323 22:50

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Absence of my Presence's Essence - veeksha I was born in the water on one of the coldest nights with a flame on my soul-how ironic. So many times, the fire was within me when everything outside was cold and chilling; so many times, I tried to kill myself and should've fallen by now. Only I can see the ripples through the darkness outside and within me as I fight death. To sing my song and taste the essence on my lips; let me go and release me to further depths so that I finally find my way; so that my emptiness can genuinely be carried in a vessel, calling me forward. If we cannot carry this burden ourselves, no one will feel our absence after we are gone. Break free from these chains of torment, and burn the thorns that threaten love. I want the truth, the pain, or allow the ashes to fill my lungs. Give me your hand, and I'll make it mine. otherwise, i bind myself to nothingness, eternally; not through love, but through a forever-dampened essence of pain left in my presence— the vines that intertwine with no remembrance or forgiveness. Disabling the ability to climb is a root disease that suffocates any life that has welled up inside. Don't look into the darkness (me) for too long, otherwise, you'll be consumed by it just like it has consumed me. in there lies, ruins and isolation, agony and pain, and perhaps I can see it written in my words, gnawing and clawing to be set free. Perhaps I see the skeleton that shakes around the burning lights. The only difference between me and the skeleton is that it does not possess a body, while I do. Perhaps we share the same pain, which can be soothed like a tamed and calmed beast. A truth that leaves us completely exposed but uncertain. Yet to care for me and slowly walk away from the strands of shadow-creation, whether woven, spoken, or written. A garden of words – 𝒗𝒆𝒆𝒌𝒔𝒉𝒂☕︎ //words that live in the garden, given the blood to breathe and feel the absence of my presence's essence// 20:47 15 July, 2022

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there's any echo in your ear. it'll never work behind you and him. you're too different. too much work. too much emotions for a person to handle.

here's the difference between you and him. you grew up with one-sided love and an angry father. but he grew up in a beautiful meadow, playing soccer with his friends. you grew up in a small church where gossip spreads faster the gospel. and he grew up humming religious hymns under his breath. you were scared of thunderstorms as a kid. he loved dancing along side danger. your old friends have moved on and your only reminder of love is tattered friendship bracelets. but he is constantly crowded by people who adore him. you prefer not to share your dark secrets. while he loves to talk, he could do it for hours.

the good thing is: you know. you know that both of you are two crashing waves. two lines that should be parallel but somehow meet. there's no chance that both of you can make it out alive. but he loves you like no other. darkness and all, he takes care of you. in the end, that's all you need.

[ivycblvd]

all i wanted to do was put myself to sleep in towns i didn't know, places i hadn't seen, things i didn't feel.