A new day dawning A new sunrise Is what 'hope' is to you But dawn is not what I look ahead to. For I am the Sky The ocean that's a different kind of deep Arching over this earth And day is not me. The Sun illuminates This earth. The Sun blinds out My stars. The Day blinds out my depths and my shallows, Clouds over my face and hides The inky depths of my heart And paints me a happy blue; What a nice cultured obedient sky we have here. As this blinding light dims out It takes its pretty blues and yellows with it And draws back the veil, And the secret light of the moon Lovingly caresses my whole being-- The corset was too tight here, my dear Let me breathe back the life into you. The secret light of the moon illuminates Me. Me, the blue-black darkness that is my soul, The happy pinpricks of memories that shine through this dense fabric, The tumultous sea of my thought That sometimes bursts through in the day itself Blotting out even the Sun As the clouds rush in to contain the damage. Me, the blank canvas, the stage backdrop Where all of life plays out " 'Twas a good show, Mr Shakespeare, Sir" Many thanks, thy kinds words delight my heart Let's dismantle the stage now.
I am the moon’s reflection
In a murky night puddle
Do I not want to flit among the fireflies?
But I am not the moon
(Though I could be)
Only its flattened image;
Here comes a shoe
Sending ripples through my body.
(No, this is not a poem
Because in my country
It’s not that simple.)
There comes a day when the pressure
Fails to be contained
When the volcano explodes
And hot lava
Flows down the hillside.
They hate the rain in London
Because it means dark, gloomy days
No sunshine, football, or picnics
And house arrest in stuffy, humid rooms.
Heartbreak’s a searing
pain with no gain but a lot
of weight from ice-cream.
People usually launch contests, awards and other such things of their own on a special occasion- like their blog’s or their own birthday. But I, like Lewis Carroll, am going to do so on my unbirthday instead. After all, you have 364 unbirthdays and only one birthday, like he so insightfully said.
You don’t need to be Sherlock to know that it is the Raw Poetry Contest I’m launching today.
But what is this Raw Poetry Contest thingamajig?
“No, doc, she doesn’t have a diary
To padre, she won’t confess,
No clue as to why she’s so bleary,
I’m starting to fear she’s depressed.”
Close your eyes and write a poem,
Because sights are beautiful
Look at the sounds.
*Brazenly copies Misha Collins’ twitter greeting*
Now I don’t normally do social media-y posts like this; if I have something to tell you, I usually put it in an author’s note at the end of my regular stuff. But if you’ve read Killing the Creator part 13 you know I didn’t do it this time and even told you to watch out for this post. What the hell? Have I finally gone batty, you ask?
Well, no. I would’ve told you this in the author’s note itself, but then it’d have been too long and it wouldn’t be fit to be called a note anymore. And besides, the news merited an individual post. So, I present to you-
me wasting your time a public announcement.
Ahem, ahem. *Spends five minutes clearing throat* *Drinks a one-litre water bottle* *Picks up a megaphone and gets on the soapbox*
I’ve been published.