Dunking a cookie,
O, sweet Fika!
You happened to possess perfect timing.
You came at the right time
And vanished at the right time too.
I thank the gods we didn’t meet earlier,
The consequences would have been disastrous.
I simply wasn’t ready for someone like you,
Back in the days.
Dunking a second biscuit,
You left all of a sudden
We didn’t even argue.
I wish to thank you.
In ghosting me, you left me with my new best friend
Scilicet my loneliness.
The one I embrace
Who constantly reminds me that besides you,
The rest has always been a waste of time and energy.
I tend to cling to everything we talked about
Diving in a cathexis of you,
My main drive towards my goals…
I dunked the biscuit for too long,
Half of it sunk to the bottom of my cuppa
Let it be, it is still a Fika!
I’ll not wake up, no,
swimming here in this conch shell
of life, shadows tickling my ear,
playing house while the real
the world assumes it’s won.
I’ll not confront it, no,
kicking up the remains of reality
swept under expensive furniture
when we could afford the luxury
of not caring.
I’ll remain in my head,
enveloped by this conch shell,
closed to those sounds desperate
to encroach, honking displeasure
at deaf eyes shut.
Phillip Knight Scott is a native of Durham, North Carolina, where he lives and writes poetry. A husband and father, he finds happiness in family, friends, reading, and of course, writing. He enjoys creating expansive worlds in as few words as possible. His writings can be read at http://www.phillipkscott.com.
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.
Katherine Robbins Karr grew up in a small sleepy town in Northern NJ where
people don’t dream of becoming artists. She is a promotional model with a candy
cigarette girl company in SF, a rock n roll fashion seller online, a musician/singer in
a duo, and a poet with a degree in Creative Writing from Mills College. Katherine
lives in SF with her partner Haji and dog Aly.
Sprawling in tiny,
The graveyard behind my house,
Is a spiral graveyard with
Hundreds of tomb stone,
Etched with emotions,
Hidden inside the lunar light.
The tombstone carved
Out of their regret,
Shines in turbulent thunder,
When words fall splattering
On the stones, caressing their hips,
Leading to some past ecstasy.
I have kept every drop off,
Their lust into the coffins,
Hidden behind the broken mirrors
The pieces stinging my translucent skin,
Mending a fragrance
Of some distant memory.
People come and people die
Into my house,
Upfront the graveyard,
Where lilies would bloom
In the center,
A place so untouched,
Where weeds out of their bones,
Never killed those hideous beauties.
Since time immemorial,
The seasons have trespassed my lilies,
Until today, when you plucked them out.
Now from my house,
I can see your large gravestone,
Or would I rather say your center stone?
Where forces of mystical love,
Maxed out into the hollowness
Of this constricted spiral.
My words have failed to,
Nourish your parched nails,
Driven into the coffins
I’ve buried myself you,
Withering in the hollowness
Of our mystical love,
Where lust, ecstasy has never
Run past your eyes,
Where our bodies have
Decayed into one,
Where the ice has
Melted on our lips,
Making our heart frozen into love,
Until the day you plucked the lilies,
Until the day you stole my home.
Now I live in a broken shelter,
Where thunderous clouds of,
Melancholy, rip me inside out
Which scares me beyond fear
Where ground beneath my feet
Is still drenched in blood.
He is a worshipper of abstract writings. The voices inside him move through shards and pieces of drunken emotions, sober with metaphors. And he hopes to create a shift in perspective in this vivid world.