Welcome To My Ruins.

โ€‹These Lego pieces don’t fit, 

Unless you’re willing to give 

A few of your own,

And maybe permanent glue them;

They tend to be knocked down quite easily. 
These hallways to my mind

Were once alight, can you believe?

The marble, the wit, the walls, the sanity

They were all in place.

Now, even I can’t make sense of the mess.
The dining room of my heart 

Had the biggest chandelier,

The crystals were the family 

And friends and lovers,

Who lit me up wholly

whenever they convened.

The darkness now provides

A blanket, however. 
The backyard of my soul

Was the prettiest green, 

With the loveliest plants

Giving provided they were given.

Oh, believe me, it wasn’t always this dry,

There was life in it once. 
These were my favourite places

In the home I once had

That I could carry everywhere I went

Through meaningful lyrics,

White pages written upon by love,

Beeping of phones;

All of which ceased to be,

Along with me,

To put it subtly- when he discovered

The gypsy in him. 

That is why he would leave this eldorado

For other lands, right?
If he ever comes back, 

I think I have one wall of memories,

Memories of us painted red in love

Left. 
Maybe then he’ll recognize the ruins

He left me in.

For others like you,

May I offer a full tour?

-Kimaya Ingale.

Interstellar.ย 

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Hey, I have missed you guys. A lot. Some important exams of mine, that I’ve been preparing for this past year, are less than two months away. Agh. And sometimes, when I’m supposed to study, I write cheesy song lyrics. But because I can’t sing, they remain poetry. I don’t know, I want you all to read them as song lyrics, to your own tune if you can manage it and let me know how you like it. Now, if only I could play guitar and sing like Taylor. 


Interstellar.

There’s something
In the way,
You look at me, baby

Even when you know,
It’s time to let go.

But, baby, I need you to stay,
I need you to listen,

Chorus:

Listen to the universe conspiring
Against us,
It’s angry, planets collide,
Galaxies burst,

Baby, you should stay,
‘Cause we’re better
Something interstellar.

There’s something in the way,
You hold my hand,
Like you know it’s the last day

Even though, you know
You promised to never let go.

But baby, I need you to stay,
I need you to listen,

Chorus:

Listen to the way the stars war,
When we’re together, just
To burn brighter than us

Listen to the universe conspiring
Against us,
It’s angry, planets collide,
Galaxies burst,

Baby, you should stay,
‘Cause we’re better than
Something interstellar.

Oh baby,
There’s something in the way,
I ask you to stay,
And you look like you may..

Chorus:

Listen to the universe conspiring
Against us,
It’s angry, planets collide,
Galaxies burst,

Baby, you should stay,
‘Cause we’re better than
Something interstellar.

You and I, interstellar.

-Kimaya Ingale.


Dead Poetry.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: I have no idea who painted the picture below (found it off Google), so I cannot really give credits.


image

Dead Poetry.

Come near, tip toe here,
But secrets, can you keep?
“Alive today, dead tomorrow.”
– My last words you’ve just heard;
Don’t tell,
But don’t fear.

-Kimaya Ingale.

What Makes Famous Poems.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: I’m actually proud of this piece, for once. ๐Ÿ˜€


What Makes Famous Poems.

Sitting on a rickety chair,
My frustration multiplied
By the constant escape of
Those fickle devils-
Words-
From my mind’s hungry lair.

‘What makes famous poems?’
I wondered,
Surely it was, for one,
A myriad of thoughts
That no one,
Except the poet,
Would care about enough
To ponder.’

It was surely
The way they’d tempt us
With bodacious fair maidens
And the same ol’
Mystical island of yore.

It was the way
They’d entice us
With comfort that
We were seeking.
Lace it in their
Sonnets and limericks and haikus,
Like they knew
What’d exactly
Stop our grieving.

It was,
Not to forget,
That they were
The First Ones
To write words,
To write beauty
With a harmonic end
On the topic they chose,
And the pictures
They had painted of
Objets d’art
Would be eternally
Their own.

The majority of inspiration
(And only that, nothing more!)
Would be frowned upon, thereafter,
As plagiarism;
Cast away, to return,
To quoth the Raven,
“Nevermore.”

So, to be me
And be born in the
21st century
Is a curse.
The very best of ideas
Seem to be all taken
And lovingly fed with words.

Now, I grow desperate
(And though begrudgingly,
I admit- unreasonable),
Wary of cursing
Ms. Plath, Cummings, Poe
Ms. Dickinson, Whitman
And ‘course,
Shakespeare!

For, they were
The First Ones,
Their poems embalmed evermore.
I forget all the pleasure
They’d given me
Once
Or twice
Or thrice,
For now,
They and some others along their line,
They are taking from me
The chances of getting
On a plane to Cambridge,
The very opposite of near.

-Kimaya Ingale.

Breakable Diamonds.

AUTHOR’S NOTE:ย Why did the mushroom go to the party? Because it was a fun-gi. ๐Ÿ˜‚
Sorry for that, but it is one of my favourite and most told jokes ever. You can guess how funny I am by the fact that I find mushroom related humour hilarious. ๐Ÿ˜


Breakable Diamonds.

Diamonds, so strong,
U
N
B
R
E
A
K
A
B
L
E.
Blessed by nature.

I’m nature, too.
Why can’t I be that?
Or am I not good enough
For the seemingly impartial one?
I won’t be surprised if I am not,
For I was good enough for you
Right before we took the wrong turn.

But,
Crystalline or not,
You’d still break me.
What match would a diamond be,
For someone who can kill
With just a few words.

-Kimaya Ingale.

Accursed.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Hey! Well, straight to the point, I’m attempting to write Haiku even after I failed my last two attempts at trying to write that esoteric type of poetry. Just let me know if I passed this time in the comments and I’ll change the title of the poem ๐Ÿ˜›


image

Accursed.

Need to, want to drown,

Alas! An untimely curse-

Knowing how to swim.

-Kimaya Ingale.

Cymbals and Cynics.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: “Don’t give it up, just stay grand for one more minute.” -Troye Sivan.


Cymbals and Cynics.

I love you
And it scares me;
For you,
You only hear
Three little words
And are not burnt
By the inferno
Raging within.

The cynics-
They hear it, too,
And take the stage
Every time,
Threatening to reduce
The pounding cymbals
Of my love
To an acoustic minimal.

-Kimaya Ingale.