The Scent Of Yours

Artwork by Annie aka hashtag_grunge
Artwork by Annie aka hashtag_grunge

Looked for you through the unbending walls
Searched for your shadow between the sheets
While the broken pieces of our love on the floor
From the last night perforated my twisted feet.

Jotting your traces on the mantle wrapped around
I found myself lying knackered on the horizon line
While in the ocean of woe all memories drowned
Yet somehow the scent of yours inside me did survive.

Kritika Vashist

Late Night Thoughts – (The Puzzle)

My life always has been perplexing; perhaps, a jigsaw puzzle, and I am trying to put different pieces into right places, sometimes to give it some sense, and sometimes to see what it turns out to be. However, putting a piece in its right place isn’t as easy as everybody around me told. There were nights when I struggled to give my fatigued eyes some rest, because my thoughts refused to sleep. However, a night of absolute persuasiveness came by, and I could let the bleak thoughts slip away in the pure silence of the night. I realized that the pieces of my puzzle are not at one place, that they never were, but they are always around me.

I continued to move my pen over the plain white sheet, and did not regret if a line bended between or the ink clogged. For some reason, I always believe that I’ll make something out of it, and that a mistake might lead to a much beautiful piece of art that couldn’t have been possible without unintentional clogs or bends.

I finished my piece without doubting my ideas and capabilities only to realize that I will only be able to pick the pieces of puzzle if I keep walking, as far as I can, as long as I can, and if I happen to pick wrong pieces, not once but many times, I should not worry and keep moving. Instead of thinking about the wrong pieces that I mistakenly took hold of, and that I failed at finding the right ones, I must look at the puzzle with careful fore-thoughtful planning.

The next morning I showed my art work to a friend who fairly appreciated, unknown of the hidden imprints of clogs and bends under the artistic lines. That’s how life is.

-Kritika Vashist

That One Starry Night

757px-van_gogh_-_starry_night_-_google_art_project_0
The Starry Night is an oil on canvas by the Dutch post-impressionist painter Vincent van Gogh. Painted in June, 1889.

You are sitting by the window
staring at the moon that,
sometimes appears as a drunken man with sorrows,
and sometimes as a sober thinker with drunken thoughts.
The lights in the room are off,
and the only light that embraces everything
inside you and inside the room is the moonlight.

The moonlight enters through the windowpane,
that has been broken for a reason,
that you no longer remember.
The light falls on the floor, filling the gaps
between the two tiles, caused by
weariness of your footsteps and time.
You make circles with your left foot,
and it feels like you are dipping your jiggered foot
in the water, healing you as it slowly enters through cracks
in the water, that has been kissed by the moonlight.

You focus back on the moon and you observe that,
some portion of it is veiled by the clouds,
and you wonder if clouds are jealous of how
you stare at the moon with longing and with love.
Your eyes are set on the sight as the clouds continue to
swirl around the moon and later leaving it all alone.

You no longer hear the tick-tick of the clock,
as you listen to the song of the starry night in its silence,
and even though they say that nights are meant to sleep,
you only want to behold the moon,
for you believe that, this night isn’t the one that
brings you the thoughts of your fiddly life and worries,
but helps you to break your skin into a smile.

You stretch your right arm and make a U
with your thumb and forefinger to hold the moon,
and it fits perfectly in the space even from a distance,
but you realize that you cannot hold it forever and,
you break the U, knowing that,
you can still feel its warmth even if you cannot hold.

The writer in you tells you to pick up your pen and diary,
to write down a poem on how beautiful the moon is,
on how painful it is to know that,
you can have it only from a distance;
But you continue to be enamoured of
the moon and the starry night thinking,
that sometimes some poetries should
not penned down on a paper, but they must be
written in the reflection of the sight in your eyes,
for they stay there forever; untouched and undestroyed.

As the loudness of silence increases,
the night gets more still,
and in that stillness you are awake,
and all your fears sleep.
You feel at peace and this night
you do not wish to dream,
as you aren’t sure if your dream could be as
beautiful as the night sky and,
as calming as the moon.

While your eyes are fixed on the moon,
the lullaby by the moon puts you to sleep.
Your eyes closed, and your mouth half opened,
and the lover in you enters your dream, this night too,
telling you that the moon you have been taking a shine to
was familiar to the one you love.

The moon continued to shine in the darkness,
and the stars pinned to its beauty,
while another night sings in your dream, where
the lover in you reads the poetry,
the one that was written in your eyes,
with soft pauses and hard truths etched into it.

-Kritika Vashist

(Now think of the moon as the one someone loves, read the poem again; a story of a lost love and that someone.) 

Late Night Thoughts (Second Chance)

veins_by_benjiiben-d6ywg7x

There will be a night when you would feel worthless, and you would think that there is no meaning to your life anymore. Your body would shudder and your lips would quiver in fear of being alive. You would think how will you survive another day? You would think maybe tomorrow will be worse than today, and you will again regret for not ending it the first time the thought came to your mind, that had coagulated all your hopes and potential.

And then with your trembling hands, you would open the drawer of your study and take out the paper-cutter or the scissor to stop everything at once; every pain, every disappointment, every reason, every hope and all your fears. You would place it on your wrist, and you would stare at the veins travelling from your wrist to your heart. You would think how delicate life is, and how God exposed the veins to heart while designing the body, letting us see the roots and veiling its branches with the skin.

At first you would cut if softly, because it isn’t easy, and nothing would happen. You would give it a second try thinking it is hard and painful, but it isn’t impossible and that you have to do it, for your life has become a mess. While placing the cutter on your wrist, you would pause for a moment and ask yourself; if you can give this a second chance, why you cannot give it to yourself?

Hello, everyone. I am starting with a series- Late Night Thoughts; relating to thoughts that our mind speaks in the silence of the night.

-Kritika Vashist

When You’ll Know

Artwork by Edward Munch

That late evening in the silence of slithering hues,
your goodbye echoed loud enough that the
gloomy clouds pulled their tears back.
I tried to control my quivering lips,
and the words inside convulsed one by one.
I wish I could tell you that the pain of separation
doesn’t disappear like a smoke in the air.
That it is like the air you push into your lungs
and the next second you puff some out.
I knew that you would understand only when
you’ll find yourself picking the pieces of me in your bedroom,
removing them from everything that I ever touched,
and then you would realize that it is hard to peel off
my imprints on you and to pull off the pieces of me in you;
when you’ll be watching some movie or reading a book
and thought of me would cloud the sight and
then you would try to shake them off your head;
when the air would rush into your ear and whisper my name
and you would cover your ears or act deaf;
for whirling in eddies of my thoughts wasn’t what you wanted;
when you’ll pour yourself a drink and with watery eyes
you’ll laugh remembering our weird stories that we once made,
and then you would wipe away your tears telling yourself that
reaching the shore of my memories wasn’t the reason for your drinking;
And finally when you’ll come home late at night
to lie down on the bed and to comfort yourself,
you’ll feel distress, your body will ache and you’ll feel the chill
in the air as the window would allow the eerie feeling to enter,
and you would fear that your dreams would turn into nightmares;
for you would realize that under your bed is my grave,
the one that do not hold my bones, and yet they hold everything of me,
in all those letters that I wrote to you, in all the painting and poetries,
all that you buried under the mattress, and all that dance every night,
everything of me and us that you couldn’t throw away or burn down
because somewhere between sorrow and felicity you still loved me.

-Kritika Vashist

Loving You

Your love feels like the soft sunshine falling
On the face when the skin freezes in cold.
Your love feels like boisterous ocean waves
Taking me away every night with your memories.

Loving you is a an un-fathomed dream where;
Sometimes I flutter in an infinite sky of love, and
Sometimes I fall from your hands into a black abyss.
Loving you is getting stung by the honey bees
While tasting their moreish nectar from your mouth.

You, sometimes have been the moon in my dark nights;
You, sometimes have been the darkness itself.
You have been the rain pouring down my talking eyes;
You have been the pilgrim to the soul through my eyes.
You have been my love rose with all its thorns, the one
I let impassioned me, and whose fragrance still lingers.

Loving you was never an experience;
It always has been an endless journey,
Of embracing the pain and nothingness,
Of destroying oneself and rebuilding.

Before I die with this song inside of me,
And before these inimical episodes of life
Take you away and push me off the edge,
I want to sit and sing the song to you,
That I love you in echoing silence.
I love you in piercing loneliness.
I love you in desolation, in happiness.
I love you in my bedspread poetries;
For no reason and for eternity.

-Kritika Vashist

Clavicle – Yet Again

collarbone_by_lucrecha-d7t27cu

And then that one night
When he had her beside him
Under the the bewitching sky
The moonlight was overshadowed
By the radiance of her clavicle.

– Kritika Vashist

(I had written nano poetries on Clavicles earlier as well. If you like, you may read them here.)

Mystical Rumi (III)

Molana

Today is Day 3, the last day of the challenge. I do not wish it to end. However, today I will share 3 quotes by Rumi. You will have to dive deep to know the depth of his each word. 


1. “I have lived on the lip
of insanity, wanting to know reasons,
knocking on a door. It opens.
I’ve been knocking from the inside.”


2. “The cure for pain is in the pain.”

(Here is the answer for all my melancholic poetries. I do not need motivation, I just need to pen down the pain, and some that is left to be felt as I gaze at the night sky.)


3. “My heart is so small
it’s almost invisible.
How can You place
such big sorrows in it?
“Look,” He answered,
“your eyes are even smaller,
yet they behold the world.”


This was in reponse to the Quote Challenge by Midnight Shadow and Gail. Thank you both, I so loved doing it.

I hope you all enjoyed reading the quotes.

– Kritika Vashist

The Darkest Night

women abstract black sketch alex cherry 1920x1080 wallpaper_www.artwallpaperhi.com_79

The blue sky unveils itself
exposing its darkest layers
where I pin my sorrows
the reflection of which
flashes into the watery eyes
The quiet inter-flow of sweat
of the frozen skin with tears
warms up the numb emotions
The mind gets heavy while the
weight of my steps drop off
The wind howls in madness
only to peel off my skin, slowly
to let the melancholy assail me
while sorrows sways on the
morbid beats of the darkest night.

– Kritika Vashist