the silent shadow

Age 32: The Year of an Authentic Me

 

In a complete and serene silence

we’d walk,

and through our scrutinizing eyes

we’d talk.

Maybe we’d walk for miles,

reciprocating each other’s smiles;

caring not to look at the judging eyes,

pretending to be deep in thoughts,

pretending to be wise.

Or maybe,

it’ll be just a stroll in a park,

caring not if there’s still light or if it’s dark.

 

In complete and calming silence we’d sit,

ignoring the eyes calling us misfits.

Maybe we’d sit on the freshly mowed grass,

staring into each other’s soul in a trance.

Or maybe,

it’ll be in a luxurious restaurant seat,

where slowly will our hands crave to meet.

 

In a complete and pious silence we’d live,

where full trust will we swear to give.

Maybe it’ll be near a city,

where the people surrounding us will be witty.

Or maybe,

it’ll be far away in a melancholy house,

where one day we’d be enthusiastic,

and another, we’d lose.

 

And through this silence,

we’d get to know each other’s strengths and fears,

and give contagious laughs, while wiping the dripping tears.

 

Within this silence,

one day,

will echo your screams filled with pain and agony,

while the sharp knife in my hand will twist unhappily.

“For speaking lies here is a crime”,

My shadow will whisper to you all covered in grime.

 

And then will I wake,

feeling as though through my heart is a stake.

“It’s just a dream”

I’ll convince myself, I’m sure,

but the shadow,

the shadow will lurk there and lure.

 

And now,

as you open your mouth and let the meaningless words dart,

I realize,

how much I want to shove the sharp knife straight into your heart.

 

A nightmare it has now become,

and slyly my shadow whispers,

“Darling, they have just begun.”

(By Anjali Sharma.)

 

Anjali Sharma: She’s 20, lives in New Delhi, India. Currently, a history honors student, who’s also a content writer at Withered Weedy Writers.

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.

2 poems – Megha Sood

A thief called grief

Grief always find its way
like the water under the door
an anxious child lost in the maze
seeping quietly to places unknown
it will sink and seep in your soul
evade you at times.
You cannot force tears of joy
like a thief
a house abandoned,
sand slipping through the fingers
my eyes have run dry
every loss leaves an impression
sometimes the grief is dichotomous
like the balloons slipped through
those tiny fingers
a loss intermixed with wonder.

3. Invisible

You have left long before the last spring
a dying songbird in my hand
reminds me of the broken prayer
once we were.
I still find pieces of your
broken memories, shards
lodged in me
pulling out your claws from my supple body
pieces and sieved with pain,
my pain impaled on the stars in the nightly sky.
Pain shines brightly in the darkness
this pulverized pain
reminds me broken pieces I foraged together
to make a whole of me.
the painstaking process of keeping this soul together
when like a hungry vulture
you are shredding and scraping bits of me
sometimes I think you scooped
and carved out the light out of me
This loneliness,
this ache in my bones
stripped of light
the pain feels different in darkness than in light
like a million feathers burning
still not leaving soot
Your existence in me in invisible
this pain is invisible.

 

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/.

Grieving the grief

 

Take a shower, wash off the day. Drink a glass of water. Make the room dark. Lie down and close your eyes. Notice the silence. Notice your heart. Still beating. Still fighting. You made it, after all. You made it, another day. And you can make it one more. You’re doing just fine.

grief,

a shout in the void

where birds chirp and sing

meaningless songs of love

and heaven swings

to it’s highest position in prayers

but nothing is left,

at least it looks like this.

 

my mouth is an empty vessel

with a porous bottom

agony slips swiftly

bleeding the red of anger

from my chapped lips,

grief is too thick to slip

still.

 

my fingers are needles

of my mother’s tailoring toolbox,

I weave threats into poems,

and make sweaters out of pain,

it’s a comforting effort

for a dying soul,

grief can’t be woven,

it’s fibers are delicate.

 

my legs are nocturnal,

I take night walks

talking to the merciless moon,

I count dead bodies on stars.

sometimes the sky smiles at my strength,

sometimes it weeps heavily,

but grief doesn’t leave my eyes,

it’s too frozen to melt.

 

grief,

is a poem burning on my lips,

is an intricate thread scarring my fingers,

is a suffocated tear crawling inside my eyes,

is an aglet that keeps pain from unraveling

is a loss you kept coming back to.

 

grief,

is an epiphany,

too divine to be rejected as the present

and

too earthly to be asked in a prayer.

A mystical poetess with a straightforward style of writing. Her poems
question norms and portray naked truth, sometimes subtle sometimes
clearly evident. Sameera took up writing as a means of escape and never
looked back. She is on a constant look out for lost souls like her own, giving
voice to the unheard and painting pictures of the unseen are her favourite
pastime. She blogs at https://poetryblog320.wordpress.com/