A bottle of ash

My works are like, leaves of a tree in autumn

Waiting to be carried to it’s grave.

Waiting to be carried by the air

To go the places, it has seen.

Carry them to a pile of other leaves

Where it’ll be burned later on

And those ashes I’ll wear on my face.

My face shall resemble a dead women’s then,

All words marks and no feelings

With wrinkles not beautiful like leaves veins,

Neither parallel nor reticulate.

But maybe like roots

That never found water.

Water not my words, while at death bed

And not burry us, while we both die.

Rather burn us and collect those ashes

In a discarded bottle and keep it safe, openly

For another dead woman, to find it,

Reach her hands into it and

Wear those ashes on her face.



©16/04/19 The Rendezvous Club

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Eating soil

My mamma caught me eating soil yesterday,

She wouldn’t have caught me, if

I hadn’t stolen the sieve

From the kitchen,

To separate the rocks from the soil.

I should have let those rocks

Poke my oesophagus.

She patted thrice on my back

And took me in,

Seated me next to the kitchen door

Went in to get a glass of water.

She asked me to drink at least half of it

And wiped the dirt off my face.

She asked me, why I was eating dirt?

I said, you told me that

I was made of soil and

I’ll return to soil one day.

So I was trying, to fasten the process.

Which process? She asked.

I said there was two and

I’m happy with either one.

First is that,

I think when I was made, someone left holes in me

And I wanted the soil to fill me up.

For things ache in me and

I want to feel whole .

And second is that,

If I eat too much soil then

I’ll have more than enough of it in me that,

Earth would want me to return to it soon

And I’ll finally be free.

Mamma then held me close to her chest and said

Baby things don’t work like that,

If they did,

Then I would have sat along with you

And ate soil.

My dear baby things don’t work like that.



© 14/04/19 The Rendezvous Club

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Father- A short story

Someone asked me; Have you ever heard God’s voice. This took me back to that day, when I first heard his voice. I was fighting with God and I said to him, I am the unluckiest among all the people I know for I don’t even have a father. At that very moment, he asked me back, then Then who am I ? That was the very moment I got to know that actually, I was one among the luckiest in this world. For God is my father.

Mad girl’s daughter

There were moments

When my mamma thought

I need therapy.

But I know

She won’t take me

What would the world say.

Mad girl’s daughter gone

Even more mad.

Demons on her back

Skeletons in her bag.

Sin is a word to describe,

We don’t know her past.

But then again they’ll sing

Mad girl’s daughter gone

Even more mad.

When Dad went out of the picture

You should have seen her suture.

Shadows kept in room

Windows kept her in.

Shadows kept in room

Windows kept her in.

Shadows kept in room

Windows kept her in.

Mad girl’s daughter gone

Even more mad.


Image from Pinterest


©9/4/19 The Rendezvous Club

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A sunflower’s insanity

A sunflower went to a bouquet shop

Tried to buy a Garland of roses

Just to be worn around it’s head.

The sun got mad at the flower

For it’s atrocity and asked;

You yourself is a flower

Don’t you know that it hurts

When cut up to be born a bouquet.

The sunflower said;

I’m insane

I turned into one

When I started loving you,

You enslaved my head

Labeled me yours

And now I’m out trying to find stuff

To label as mine.

And I think that being a bouquet is better

Than being enslaved.

At least it dies in the hand of someone

Who appreciates love

As a symbol of love

With the knowledge that it was loved.



©8/4/19 The Rendezvous Club

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My heart turned to dust

Staring into the phone while my mind explores uncharted seas of emotions, and the bright light that the phone’s emitting is reflecting and glistening in the tear drops that’s trying to escape the eyes. While taking in deep breaths, in the hope that along with the oxygen the tears also will be absored into the body. Letting no one else know about the symptoms that shows that my heart and whatever peace that’s left inside it is breaking into pieces. The pillars of strength which helped me lift up my spirit with a laugh or two are now no longer aesthetically pleasing but lays like ruins at the bottom of my dusted heart. My heart broke, not into two but into million fragments by the very hope that I had found to glue it together. The wind is gently smothering me and the leaves rustling silently. Everything is calm now, no one now can hear my heart break or beat, because dust always moves without any sound. It will be blow to places and will never be one again.

©1/04/19 The Rendezvous Club

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