Like a swollen stigma
Cracking my skull
Tangling with knots in my stomach
I am a rugged moth
Floating in the mouth of lies,
With a broken chip of nail
Stuck and fabricating my body
With hallucinations of dewy shadows.
Whom am I, if not a footprint?
All blurred and deformed.
Memories are just Memories
For memories does not spark my romance with life
Nor do they slip through the curtains of moisture.
All these years, even when I was a teenager,
I watered the dying roses and Orchids
Flushing a spew of lightning and rock salt
People became a mystery to me, leaving me stained
Behind the sturdy brown doors, a knob-less door
And then began a veracious knitting
of words with emotions,
I popped millions of pills, smoked cigars
Innumerable open wounds made me ugly, they said so.
Placid openings spewed disgust, Torrents powerful.
So, memories clasp you, twist and give a sudden twitch
They furl and embrace your naked soul,
Immersed in the droplets of blood and ink.
Memories are nothing but floating crisp memories.
Bio: Devika Mathur
Devika Mathur is an emerging poetess from the country of love and culture, India.
Two Drops of Ink: The Literary Home for Collaborative Writing
Two Drop of Ink takes pride in providing a platform for emerging and widely published writers, poets, problem-solver for the writer and blogger, and memoirs that relate to the writer.