My Hollow Chest

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The rain has to convey a million words of abandoned worth,

To the lonely, desolate soil and my soul, stabbed with their judgmental different ways,

This hole making me feel devoid in my hollow chest cannot be stitched by someone,

For company, I don’t seek for I find satisfaction within my hollow chest.

 

A mist of forlorn fogginess prevails with the breadth of every mortal creature,

I desire these distances as they are symbiotic,

My distance appeals them of a pleasurable world better off,

And my loneliness makes me happy for I never defined it as one.

 

It’s not a disease, but a cure knowing that the only thing that should matter my mind is me,

A cold mist and shock jolts down the numb veins of my body when I’m in the presence of someone,

And all my desire from this fire of their criticism of my ways and beliefs,

Is my isolation from their reality, which by God’s mercy I’m well provided with.

 

I’m engrossed in a novel all day,

I sip my tea and immerse myself in a scent of calm chamomile, as my fingers turn the mottled, dust-colored pages,

I hear the rain pitter-patter on the shelters of unknown homes,

As if they try to imply the silent wishes of the dynasties above,

And I feel my soul can understand their bluntly unheard voices beckoning to me,

As if intended from the creator of my hollow chest.

 

 

I observe their ways and that difference is undoubtedly crystal,

That difference which drugs me of my own unique world and perhaps blinds and binds me,

With the chains of isolation tied to my barren soul devoid.

But I’m happy, I’m at peace, I’m not sad.

I’m different. I’m okay.

From reality, I’m away.

But that’s the desire of my hollow chest,

To isolate and self-heal, and be me.

 

 

Niharika Gursahani is thirteen years old and she is into writing poetry since she was ten years old. Her work is completely amateur and this is the first time She is writing a poem without a rhyme scheme. She blogs at  @theniharikadiaries .  She likes to play the piano which is another passion of hers.

 

 

 

 

Red Rose

A linguist stutters at her belly button

Lover’s crawl up to her chest

And drink upon the collarbone

One hums his mother’s Spanish lullaby

Another pleads for his father to stop

The reckless beating

She sits by the window pane

As the last lover bids adieu

He watches her paint the sky

With a vomit full of stars and

Ejaculate moons from betwixt

Her palms

Duct tapes hang from the corners of

Her lips

She becomes a red rose one last time

A throbbing heart sits in her mouth

The dead lover’s chest beats emptily

Without escape of a singular sound

BIO

 

Nameera Anjum is a nineteen-year-old aspiring poet who loves to pen down her thoughts and feelings as fearlessly as possible. She believes that the utmost liberation comes to her through words; writing is a part of life she wishes to keep intact until the very end. Gothic fiction is her absolute favorite genre. It comes as no surprise that Edgar Allan Poe is her ultimate inspiration.

Lost Home

 

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The wind has broken down a couple of times
resting on my back
giving me solace
when in fact she needs it more than me
wind, a carrier of good times
doused with the fragrance of a lover's kiss
or soaked in the ecstasy of the first night
in the arms of the beloved
sometimes gets heavy-hearted
soaked by the mother’s tears
They fall incessantly
and dabs her unknowingly
she tells me,
she cares
as she perches from one heavy heart to another
laced with the message of love
a tone of melancholy
in the moments which seem to wither
I too have a heart which feels pain, she says
it breaks her heart to see the last leaf
leaving the arms of that mighty oak
Giggling through the trees
her ephemeral presence in the forest
she is there but she doesn't belong
a feeling of detachment.
she carries remorsefully in her heart
lost in her thoughts
Wind is apologetic at times
like a ghost
sifting through the dead leaves
trying to find her lost home.

 

Megha Sood lives in Jersey City, New Jersey. She is a contributing author at GoDogGO Cafe, Candles Online, Free Verse Revolution, Whisper and the Roar, Poets Corner and contributing editor at Ariel Chart.
Her 290+ works have been featured in 521 Magazine #Sideshow, Oddball, Pangolin review, Fourth and Sycamore, Paragon Press, Royal Rose, Visitant Lit, Quail Bell, Modern Literature, Visual Verse, Dime show review, Nightingale and Sparrow, Piker Press and many more. Her works have been anthologized in  “We will not be silenced” by Indie Blu(e) Publishing, (“All the Lonely people”, Blank Paper Press) and upcoming in 12 other anthologies by US, Australian and Canadian Press. Her poem “Survivor” was selected for the “Survival is Insufficient” series by the Jersey City Writers as part of the event sponsored by the National Endowment of Arts.

She recently won the 1st prize in NAMI NJ Dara Axelrod Mental Health Poetry contest. She blogs at https://meghasworldsite.wordpress.com

Hourglass

 

The Antelucan Hourglass

I keep time with an hourglass

because I prefer the shape.

 

It reminds me of the bottles

with the dark sweet fluidity

of caffeine and the feminine

bodies keeping my attention.

 

This addiction holds me tight,

so that when I lack,

the world is dull

as a vintage centerfold,

soft focused, air brushed

and distant.

 

But once the bubbles

touch my tongue,

I feel like a man

returning home

to a luxurious body

lounging in my bed.

 

Where is the next raven

beauty to touch my lips?

When is my next fix?

 

My world is shaped

by the hourglass.

 

Bartholomew Barker is one of the organizers of Living Poetry, a
collection of poets and poetry readers in the Triangle region of North
Carolina. His first poetry collection, Wednesday Night Regular, written in and about strip clubs, was published in 2013. His second, Milkshakes
and Chilidogs, a chapbook of food inspired poetry was served in 2017.
Born and raised in Ohio, studied in Chicago, he worked in Connecticut
for nearly twenty years before moving to Hillsborough where he makes
money as a computer programmer to fund his poetry habit.
www.bartbarkerpoet.com

 

Live to die or die to live?

 

Jane Birking 1960, behind her Serge Gainsbourg

Rolling the skin deeply

In the waters, rusting my bones

cold moisture seeps the pores

hits spine, undercurrents discharged

pupil widens, nostrils expand

I breathe in the black smoke

hair rise stiffens the nerves

muscles inflamed; cortisol infused

bloodstream rages like rivers in monsoon

myths dissolve in the violet rain

crumpled boats of paper, sink in puddles

the sky is a stone, grey & opaque

prayers bouncing back

no man in the sky, In seas

tiptoed to the edge

of a slippery rooftop

frictionless, I ask

Do I fall & live?

or do I hold on and die?

 

 

Siddharth is an Engineer by passion, Poet by design. Studying aerospace in France, he occasionally finds some time to reflect in a pond or study the pattern of gulls flying in the beach. Dark & twisted life of his is a concoction of melancholy & joy. He doesn’t stare into abyss; he has a flat there. Writing out of passion, Poetry reflects his struggles to overcome depression fuelled by his trauma & harassment. Sprinkled with a self-assumed sense of humor & a self-confessed love for rock music, he has been featured a few times on the front page of Allpoetry.com (weird flex!).