Writing; of wanting to forget!

Look at the sky, it's shimmering just for you,
Said the one who showers love like a need
An ideal wrote a poem on tea, how it transcribes,
Into her world, emotionally
And yet, how incurable!
Nothing is curable, nothing!
Yet, we keep, I keep returning to it,
In the other part of the world is the absolute,
While I well up on craving to be the one,
The eyes rummage through the sigh
The voice inside, the sensible one, begs
Begs to stop, enough, isn't it?
Yet, I keep returning to it.
I owe now, to myself and for myself,
To let the absolute love find me and smother me
With its purity and intensity
Until then, I will stroll through
Trying to cure the incurable!


A literature to the art supply.
Art should make you feel something, and that is why one can not term it good or bad. Because, it is relative, just like everything else.

The art supply that celebrated me, inspired me, made me-me, and the rest of the positives!
But art, art should make you feel something?
That feel, includes disgust, anger, pain, helplessness.
This is for art completing a full circle.
A full circle through love, respect, challenge, pain, disgust, abhor & so much more, hidden in those lines, wanting to be deciphered and not explained! 

Some leftovers, are out of being full
Some others, are out of being empty for far too long.
While some others, those leftovers,
Are to let it be.
To let the surrenderer who surrenders to their madness.



© Deekshita Srinivas
  23:14 
  Bangalore

( Writing, with an immense need of wanting to forget.
  How my favorite author said, she writes, she has to write,
 to forget.
 I have, I do, but this surrender has to be forgotten.
 And so, has been written. )

A Poem, For a Poet!

Initiating as a marvel
a countless words
Of romanticizing pain & disgust!
A plethora of smiles
To hide beneath
Of a Poet I know
In acquaintances, emotions, moments.

I have something for you,
is how I am greeted frequently.
Each time a new,
story unwrapping effortlessly
smile vanishing vulnerably
Of a Poet I know
In poems, conversations, uncertainty.

To turn moments to art,
to lock it up in words
to leave it there
was the plan of  literature
Rather, it rekindles, yet & yet.
Of a Poet I know
In love, need, warmth.

It's effortless to love,
to sprinkle it like magic
to be applauded for the poetry & prose
silently trudging the baggage that stays
tickling the not so quiet days
Of a Poet I know
In memory, remorse, reciprocation.

This, a poem,
a gratitude, for a poet,
for a poet I know, converse, adore,
Of all the pain you're turning to art,
Of all the - there is something more hidden in the poem
that I am told about.
To, YOU.


© Deekshita Srinivas

19:27 pm
Bangalore

( moments away from sending the poem, to the poet!)