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Little you know

                                                                                                                We go there,
and everywhere else.
a better place, is nowhere to be found.
You know, but that is too little.
to jump over, tall scratched walls.

you go on and on
as it all would come,
just as another notion
of this lost victory,

-but nothing really comes.
Or goes around.

You make the uncaring; care.
with tiny pieces of poetry.
getting them posted,
and read-
on and on.
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On such little; or in rare-
often larege
scales.

 

 

 

 

 

 

little do you know, what has to;
will come- all by itself.
Indeed, ‘efforrtless’

-Priyanshi

 

 

Haunted hikes of us.

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I have traversed to your other bays,
skulking more than that other woman.
and her pure bends, bound to be touched.
a little what of mine, is a little like hers.
no blockades ever arrive, to this quart-pot , set forth on rents.
No touches i make, sitting on creaking floorboards.
A resemblance that diminishes,
with my little white silk knots.
Held too tight, for an Eden thing;
to hold on.
Yes,
it might be the truth of the filth i came from.
from the dark nooks of things on fire.
I arrived to you, out of the blue.

Looking for a night by my beach.
with our feet, on some distinguished shores.
Yet cruising to move out for more.
Still,
on other shores.
And nothing else must be-
too together like we did.

You alone read all that is unread .
With, or better without this woman.
With your other woman.

-while the haunted hikes belong to us.

 

 

Priyanshi

The other one.

 lines, who do never define the perceptions
of things, walking past, or back and forth.
In and out your old soul.
you have something that others don’t.
Enough poetry of darkness, and love.
You’ve  got some other plight.
sometimes too rough,
and often soft.
Yours are the sierra tints,
layering this uneven skin.
more than ever done before.
Like they tell me you’re something else.
no bits of mine would ever care-
to get off this new rust-layer.

because I always longed for, the uncommon-
The other one.

-Priyanshi

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The rebirths.

Something, that you know too well-
might never come.

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the totality out of which, we love.
is even to the unloved, never meant to be enough.
even to the ones, who have never touched.
forget about getting it under carpets.
or anything.
We are failing,
but never falling for this ever brutal acceptance .
We have our ways to kill, to love,
to breathe fine.
and everything in between the meetings with death.
But the saddest being is the happiest somewhere.
obscure from the totality being torn.

We,
are failing to love.
Be it again.
once.
or twice.

making a few uses, or none at all.
with the only life to your side.
Because there is nothing on the other one.
I am no great human.
No use, even trying to be-
Lovable to the unkind, unloving.
But i am a poet,
in the least.
Or better to say, it is that ‘Everything’

We are failing, to fill our void totality-
of everything.
Such a pity, we still hope for the better.

-or the rebirth.

 

-Priyanshi

 

 

lurking beneath.

Barks  who get the life;
kissing out of you,
much more of heavenly thing.
But the worst phase is-
they don’t ever taste sweet.
I wonder if all your mates,
have got to do the same.

Other than writing love poems in the night,
staring at the screen.
A pitiful measure of being bad while loving.
And, what- i must never have killed beneath.
It is lurking, i see.
Like the battle was never, of where we belonged.
Humans racing, forgetting about homes.

In the bests of the northern lights, that I have never seen.
I would come to you,
wearing that black thing.
To the same old northern lands,
where i wrote a poem to the reversed ocean.
That is when, you don’t look for words
and they arrive; sitting on the roof of every little wood piece.

 

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I killed our love, tonight.
Right there.
just to see it hanging lifeless on the tree,
no flutters, or a noise; clung.
I beg you not to get into my lovely sin.
But you did.
And kept doing.

to let me know,
that no masses are the same as us.
Where one weeps, at the same time.
As that of the other.
But i long to be sure,
that you give in to this, on your will.
I don’t forge ahead to keep you coming to me.

And till the dawn, we built homes here.
As soon as i got to know that the barks have gone sweet.
We lived freed,
nothing that captivating .
though we know well,
we will never find –
a forever peace.

 

-for that love, is still lurking beneath.

 

Priyanshi

the first song.

It is still, so many rivers deep. But a little deeper that you go, you can see me just beneath; you.

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All women I’ve met-
from the early centuries.
be it in  my feelings,
or sur-real reverie.
they had among them,
a soliloquy.
You never could; need to redefine.
and make others see,
writing prose and poetry.
Like it all was- so unnecessary.

They needed less poets,
to drag their lovers back .
Just a classic blue, so divine.
no hues and rhymes.
That you might get it so tasteless.

 

But above all, they had a strong love.
with no paper bits in mouth; craving.
Nothing ever so rushing.
Down to these little cracks traversing their bone-
they led no screams, but an everlasting revolution.
so rambling to be in the degrees of comparatives.

They could sing,
without ever being a poet.
And, i recall that one photograph.
bathed in the moon kinda black filter.
What else must be called more lonesome than her solitude.
communing to the daisy chains; who rested before.
Without a word slipping down her lips,
or on the paper.

I see a bustle holding the back of her cloth,
a curve, suiting to the patterns of wonders-
in the back of her mind.
Ah! She’s  faraway , more than the cries
of her little penetrations and balmy eyes.

 

Let us get back to our same rides.
And wonder of the ways,
a fragile love we have.
That you are too dumb, to handle it with care.
breaking it, and later writing poetry to repair.
Leave the thing about long poems,
we satisfy, an incessant quench.
With the combined two liners.
Or often- four.

Poets are adding to more,
i too;
might be one of them.
We still have got no guts to love,
in the true means of rare.

It must be the time,
Or when else; would it come?
To learn to love.

-more than you just write, your first song.

 

-Priyanshi