residential terrazzo flooring installation
3 years ago
Feb 18, 2012
Temptation's Hand.
0 comments These are the terribly insignificant musings of Aishwarya Nagar at 5:48 PM
Through these windowpanes
That I never noticed were so caked in grime,
The outlines of rough images become defined,
Blurriness settling into an ethereal design.
Curtains of shadows flit past
And freeze fluidly in a shape, magnified, tall--
That looks eerily like a beckoning finger.
I turn my eyes away and stare at the wall.
But dust are these perilous pretensions,
That blind my sight when those beckoning shadows appear;
There are moments of piercing clarity
When illusions begin to disappear.
A beckoning finger,
A Siren's hypnotic voice.
Urging me to leave behind responsibilities,
And to turn a deaf ear to the presence of a choice.
A beckoning finger,
Evoking memories of a free world,
Grass as green as emeralds, sky a cerulean blue,
A white flag of freedom, fluttering in the wind, unfurled.
It whispers promises of quenched desires
In the murky depths of sleepless nights.
"Succumb to me," that voice murmurs,
"Fall from your climb to un-scaled heights"
And when that voice disappears, and the shadows at night,
And the mind submits to the grave concentration of life,
Though your climb to commendable heights is almost complete,
But for the last step: a steep hike in the midst of wildlife;
Determination divine, breath strong despite your struggle,
The beckoning finger returns, cutting through it with a knife.
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Please tell me if you get the connection between the picture and the poem :)
Feb 7, 2012
Masochistic Tendencies
0 comments These are the terribly insignificant musings of Aishwarya Nagar at 5:20 PM
You can spitefully holler my name
And expect me to kneel at your feet,
You can thrust a silver dagger through my heart,
And I wouldn't mind it, it's true.
You could burn me
But I'd still smile lovingly.
You could hurt me,
But I'd still stare at you singly.
Wretched, cruel, twist in nature
Where there should be burning, red-hot rage
There is the soft, fairy quality
Of love, deep rooted in the book of my life, every page.
You could use me like a miserly tissue
Crumple me and spit on me,
But these silly, stupid masochistic tendencies
Will never become a burgeoning issue.
Feb 6, 2012
Oh, Look. Utopia.
0 comments These are the terribly insignificant musings of Aishwarya Nagar at 4:17 PM
The visions I see, the visions I feel,
Why must they be tinged with fantasy,
And leave me reckless?
They leave me helpless,
A newborn calf standing on her toothpick legs.
Why must I have to taste the flavourless dregs?
Those daydreams take away from me
All semblance of reality
I wake up to a utopia so doctored.
Though behind my eyes, I see a perfect world
In reality, it's laced with famine and disease,
More holes than Swiss cheese.
But in the mountains where the buttery sunlight reigns,
In the sorrowful heart which happiness feigns,
Amidst a field of tulips,
Red, yellow and blue;
In the holy water that runs through rivers deep,
In the fertile soil within which the aromatic rain seeps,
In the eyes of a winner,
Eyes hazel and true...
I pleasure in such a fantasy;
But when faced with such happiness in reality,
Enriched with the belief
I have found utopia.
Under our feet.
Feb 3, 2012
Pulling at the Heartstrings
0 comments These are the terribly insignificant musings of Aishwarya Nagar at 5:34 PM
Rotating the rusted knobs,
Flicking the string,
Five more left to put in.
Five more left until she is human.
Strings are gently knotted, and harshly pulled to the end,
Where she lovingly secures them.
Lovingly, for they have never experienced such gentleness.
One breaks. A flinch drowns her face,
A tear breaks the guarded defense her eye.
The ghost of the pain
Is too much of a phantom to efface.
The strings,
Were so abused in her body; Before,
When they were in her heart,
They were played, until she was aching and sore.
When they were in her heart,
Her soul suffered so deep an injury,
They snapped, healed, and became bruised.
And she couldn't muster the energy
To tend to them.
Now they are stretched taut on her instrument,
She never had so much control of them as she does now---
Testing, a gentle pulling of a string,
And the air is filled with the sweet sound of shock---
The shrill pitch of euphoria,
Then the bass of sorrow and depression,
The melodious twang of freedom
And the underlying notes of indescribable happiness.
The house was so quiet before,
Mrs Higgins from next door thinks.
It used to be filled with screams of agony.
And now, the windows are tickled pink with beautiful music.
She is tugging at them. At her own heartstrings,
Giving them the love they were denied all along,
Expressing their identity,
Because inside her heart, they were abused and oblong.
Jan 27, 2012
Musings Of A Victim to Attraction
0 comments These are the terribly insignificant musings of Aishwarya Nagar at 5:08 PM
Such a fickle, fickle heart
As easily swayed as a balloon in flight,
As easily won as a cause protested right.
Though I'm suffocated by priorities,
I sit at my window, watching the sun rise
The violent orange streaking the sky,
And a heart willing to believe in lies.
A simple act of eye-contact
Can send it racing like a race-horse in a sprint,
Thundering past, a precisely-shot bullet in motion.
Overflowing the restricting boundaries of its precinct.
So easy to trust,
So easy to hurt,
So easy to fall in love.
So difficult to calculate,
So difficult to heal,
So difficult to regain control of the mind and body.
Such a fickle, fickle heart
So coquettish, so secretive, so easily won,
I wish you were a person of your own
So that I wouldn't be tagging along to your acts of fun.
Fickle, fickle, fickle heart
I long for the day we depart
And my mind can overcome
The games you play with me.
Dec 20, 2011
This coating of soot on the dusty floor?
These are ashes, my daughter. Of hopes and dreams.
They gleefully burnt my fragile wings when I was young--
Plucked my feathers and viciously tore my voice-box.
It was the last song ever sung.
That song - the one of freedom.
Look - here on my finger, this soot I will show you.
Can you smell it? This is the smell of hopelessness
And emotional fragility, where they raped my passion.
Can you see how opaque it is, how black?
It is dark, much like their rotting hearts.
Much like the godly entity that let this calamity transcend on me.
These soot lines on my cheeks are not a sign of surrender.
It is a battle mark, a medallion, a red flag--
Dignity is my queen. And I am its defender.
I am not this vicious fire that eats away hope,
I am not these flames that burn away dreams,
I am not this smoke that inhibits your vision
They numbed my senses
And suffocated me with sarin.
But I will never let you touch this soot.
Your dreams will never be devoured
By cruelty and fire.
You will never wither away
Wither away like I did.
There is a fire that destroys human progression,
And there is a fire in you, your mechanical propeller.
Dec 6, 2011
These eyes are seeing white.
Where once a smile would evoke
The visions of red colours, dancing brilliantly,
They now appear flat. Dull.
Dead.
The world that was once artistically painted
With an impressionist’s scattering of
Cerulean blues and blinding, buttery yellows
and grassy greens and vivid, rose-like pinks
their edges blurred and merging, a beautiful sight---
Everything is now grey.
As if I am colour blind.
This beating entity inside my chest
Feels detached and pointless---
Just a composition of cells and vessels
A rhythmic reminder.
Someone must have sneaked to my bed at night
Artfully slit my chest open,
Delicately extracted this heart
And boiled it in scalding water.
Nerves no more tingling with sensation,
Skin no more sensing the feathery touch of friendship,
Eyes no more seeing the colours of life.
I feel sterile,
So clean. An enchantment on my own.
Everything is numb, it’s morphine, it’s white---
There are only greys. There is no emotion.
A zombie walks through these shadowed streets at night,
Wearing my clothes,
My hair upon its head,
My voice (lifeless) emanating from its larynx,
My shoes on its feet,
My possessions in its cupboard.
Such pristine serenity
In a whirlpool of numb nothingness;
I am just a body;
A withered corpse sucked dry of blood,
An earthen pot smashed on the floor,
A soulless creature,
A sponge squeezed dry of water,
A lifeless, limp flag of independence.
Life is where love is, where freedom is,
Where trust is.
Where home is.
But I have no home.
Nov 6, 2011
Insurmountable Hate
0 comments These are the terribly insignificant musings of Aishwarya Nagar at 12:10 PM
Part I
Here it stands - a pristine, blank mirror
Reflecting back tortured eyes and a blackened soul,
As if you with your deranged hair and sadistic tendencies
Sacrificed a night of sleep
To hold up a piece of paper with my name on it
And watch it blacken with disintegration
And curl with degeneration
In a fire with fierce flames that spit reverently
Admiring the food you are dangling in its arms.
Part II
Could it be a knife your words brandish?
Because the sharp nicks that painstakingly cut my willpower
Have left nothing but shredded ribbons of flesh behind
I am bleeding – there is nothing in me but blood –
Don’t you see what you have done?
These shocking, piercing, excruciating needles
You have dislodged in my resolve?
Part III
My blood has thickened into petrol
Bubbling gelatinously in its confined presence in my heart,
Giving way to fissures of gas that escape like refugees
From a country tormented by dictatorial damnation.
The heat with which it froths and churns;
As if it is waiting to catch fire, biding it’s time
Until the day it explodes into a crazed entity
Of fire, anger, hatred, torment and abhorrence
That consumes me till the point my skin rips at the seams.
And then you would be happy.
Then you would be satisfied.
Then you would die a pleased woman.
Part IV
It was like sobbing relentlessly on the shoulder of the
two-faced devil,
Telling him the deepest, most precious sentiments of your
heart
And finding comfort in his counterfeit promises.
But you, with your blood red horns and your fiery trident,
A grin dripping brutally with contentment and amusement
Gripped my trust by the hair, tugging at its sensitive
roots,
Threw it at hungry cannibals, to watch them satiate their
appetite.
Yes, you laughed as they sank their jagged teeth into it,
You laughed as they ripped the skin off its poor flesh.
Part V
Poor, pristine mirror. Pity that your innocent face
Should have been the victim of my insurmountable anger,
Because in you I have seen my face,
In you I have seen the depths of that black soul,
In the depths of that black soul, a woman burning paper,
In the depths of those flames, the consuming hatred,
In the depths of the hatred, a breach of trust.
And in the depths of all that,
The shocking pinks and blues of pain so irreparable
Nothing can heal it ever again.
Oct 30, 2011
Her head is seconds away from exploding.
There's a perilous pressure pushing persuasively
On her fragile cranium, eating up all the space inside
Flooding every unoccupied air bubble
With it's distastefully pressurizing presence;
There's a throbbing again her eye,
A pulsating, persistent push
That's threatened to prick her tear ducts
Until she cries.
And there's the truth, looming like a ghost
Over her shoulder, intimidating and irritable;
Her tears could draw away the pain
Like an ice pack relieves a fervent fever.
But if she cries, she knows
Her heart will collapse upon itself
Like a house with foundations that were never stable.
And so the eternal dilemma -
Pain for pain,
There is never relief.
There is a drought somewhere,
And frail bodies are walking helplessly under the sun,
Willpower and survival skills being their unfortunate saviour.
There is a girl who's trust in safety
Has been violated due to crimes inflicted upon her.
There is an innocent, wide eyed child
Struggling for breath under the rubble and heavy burden of an earthquake.
But when your own mind becomes a pressure cooker
Fed with the distasteful pressures of society,
And it is as if only a drill through the brain
Or a violent display of instability
Could relieve the throbbing ache.
Here is a pain more potent.
Oct 16, 2011
Double Standards
0 comments These are the terribly insignificant musings of Aishwarya Nagar at 5:42 AM
Here is to all the glassy eyes
That shone like glass under ultraviolet light;
Reflecting back shocking blues of hope
And misguided lasers of ruby red romance
Because your face radiated moonlit paleness
That grasped at their innocence and naivete.
Excited breaths like fine tendrils singing of fragility;
You stared.
I stared.
Like they all had stared.
Their hearts must have been racehorses
Fuelled by the same concentration of adrenaline
That I remember coursing through my own veins.
Their smiles must have been just as lost
As mine were when our lips met.
They must have been just as easily fooled
As I was.
Here's to all the glassy eyes
That were dazzled by the mask of wood
Bearing handsome likeness;
Behind which lies an ugly, festering heart
Burnt raw.
Grotesquely malformed.
;;
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