#re-bumbleblossom

[soulreserve]

Winter-Long

Winter's cold is curled like a lick beneath underneath the beating heart. Like a hand of a stranger on my shoulder.

Your name is the white breath I realease from trembling lips. It escapes from me and into the dense air that carries cold with a purpose.

Loss is a constant companion, it doesn't fade with time. I watch it shiver outside under the burden of heavy snow.

What does it know of warmth? I let it slip inside, and sit by the fire. but little by little it takes over. It creeps below,

leaves my body damp and aching, swamped by run-away thoughts of you. And cold settles like a tickle in the lungs.

© SoulReserve 2023

[a-small-startup]

I have met the demons in me

At first, they came as a resort to the discomfort

Now they seem to haunt me

day and night.

While I sit at my desk and start crying,

they seem to add fuel to the fire

I see them running around in my head,

stomping my feelings and fears

I see them running around in my house,

I see them sipping tea amidst the chaos they seem to have created

I see them everyday; I see them everywhere; I see them in me.

I see them breaking glass and walking on the shattered pieces

I meet the devil in me everyday

[bluestthingsonearth]

for @nosebleedclub's april prompts. 1. as good as you'll get

[theluciddragonfly]

It isn’t death that frightens people, but rather the concept of no longer existing.

TheLucidDragonfly

[heartweary-writing]

Maybe I should have gone to you

In January, when the cold

Rang in the earth’s bones-

Shaking,

Shaking

Shaking you unsteady

Your heart heavy

Your mind ready

To unravel.

Yes, maybe I should have gone to you-

Even if you would have gone away,

Anyway.

J. K. L

[4sss]

My heart strings may be a little out of tune. So long it's been since they've been used. Still I want play a song for you. A melody for my muse.

J.c.A

[abrighterspark]

ever loud, ever lively

the river flows below

bubbling with the brook sprites

laughing, light and low

[sike-n]

A man walks into a bar

And asks the bartender for a drink

Put it in a glass or a human body either way they are one and the same

The man stands before the glass stands on the counter

His hands holds the glass holds his drink

Then the exchange

Mouth open the glass lets go of all that it is

Mouth open the man seeks to forget all that he is

Lets go of the glass

The glass tumbles

He stumbles

The glass falls

The man is down

Glass splinters glitter on the ground

Stars hidden by the man on the moon

Who has fallen off his throne

Not quite responds the bartender

As he sweeps what remains of the glass into a dust pan

And he commands the man to stand back up

[a-quietsoul]

always had my arm stretched halfway: ready to catch you, but never quite ready to reach out.

or the desperate attempt to save others and never yourself

[thesilentgazer]

Anger is powerful. That is why you ask it to hide. Anger is grief's sister. She is mad, absolutely livid, that you try to hurt her. Anger is the father of sadness. He cannot believe that something like this could happen to his son. Anger is the neighbour of consequences, you cannot avoid it for long. Anger is your mother when she has had enough of the world. Anger is your blood and bones, and how long will you hide it away, when it has made a home there.

-gazergirl

[soulreserve]

Perfume

You become a    sound      that slowly leaches from my body into air with the softness of breath, a quiet keening,   an undertone   of heartache  I've always felt.

    You release  from wrinkles, from birthmarks I have known and carried. From freckles that darken in the sun.

You unsettle from the folds of my clothes   my hair     my eyes like a memory—washed      dried and fading                           fluttering outside on clothes lines.

You aren't gone    although you are dissipating     leaving in more ways than one.       The perfume of you   is still damp on poems I write with tears.

© SoulReserve 2023    

[a-small-startup]

Bon Appétit

I haven't tumbled here in a while. I haven't written a story in a while. Not only that, but I look at old poems and think of storing them somewhere. I look at the ways in which I have narrated stories and I save them to watch later. I look at the scribblings at the back of my notebook, but before I could finish reading them, the to-do list from the front pages start haunting me. Furthermore, I open my laptop to look for some inspiration to write, you see I haven't written in a while. But then I lose the confidence to write. The “Tha ka dhi mi, tha ka ju nu” notes my roommate sings for the kids of her classical dance class rings in my head as I try to find a subject to write about. The tabs open in my laptop reminds me of the work I have to finish before the dawn of tomorrow, because Human Resources has asked me to finish tasks and have a new reporting format. But then I want to write. I want to write the same way Julia cooks in the film Julie and Julia; or is it Julia and Julie. It's my favourite film, and yet I keep forgetting the name.

I try to play a film in the background, some music that plays through my phone, Excel sheets and presentation decks, phone calls and emails. I'm multitasking, I tell myself. I've been multitasking for so many years, that somewhere I forgot how to perform just one task at a time.

I'm making tea and there's an episode of some random show playing in the background. I'm doing the laundry and there is music playing from my room. I'm bathing and in-between shampoo getting into my eyes and trying to balance on one foot I hear Sheldon Cooper explaining the theory of asymmetry.

I'm also a mental health professional, while I keep telling my clients to not google their symptoms, I struggle to restrain myself from self diagnosing.

The phone chimes and I know it's my best friend from miles away telling me her day went equally bad and at the end of the day we'll video call each other just to say “Life sucks (Exclamation point)”

I know I'm deviating from what I started writing about, I have no idea what I'm writing about. I think of sending the link to my partner once I finish posting this, but then there is a voice in the corner of my head that says I'll not post this, that I'll do Ctrl+A and click delete.

I know I shouldn't. It's after ages I decide to write, why shouldn't the world see it. At this point, you would be wondering why did I break into a new paragraph, do I have something to say? Am I changing the subject? Maybe yes. Because as I write this, I think of the first post I made somewhere in October 2017, and I can see the spelling and grammatical errors on that post. Not saying there aren't any now. By this time, all the above paragraphs have 5+ errors. The multiple grammar tools on my windows have come up, shooting red lines on the error. I ignore it for now. I can proofread much later.

So, what am I writing? I'm writing about not writing. I'm writing about having hated the urge to get my writing validated from strangers online, who have now become acquaintances. I'm writing about how my Instagram page is now non-existent and my Tumblr page had long died. But I will still shout to the world and tell them that I have gone back to writing, that I will write on a random day after a random period of time.

Adiós reader!

[bluestthingsonearth]

solo.

i turn 23 right about now. thanks for reading my poems. thanks for feeling things because of my poems. thanks for sharing them. thanks for a lot of things.

[theluciddragonfly]

Born to be a lover but I’m a master at detachment.

[heartweary-writing]

Love, for me,

Has always ended

In shame.

Love, for me,

Has always blended

With pain.

J. K. L

[4sss]

I can hear your voice in the silence. Softly your words come through. My soul's radio wave carries your whisper as I make my way to you.

J.c.A