Geetanjali Gautam

Weight of my heart
is weighing me down.
Existence is exhausted
and time denies to roll the sleeves up.

My poetry can become either a graveyard of my pain or a monument of  my love,
coated with the reflections of my eyes.
I am lost.
My map shows a way
to celebrate all the synonyms of grief
so when it thinks to consume me,
it will skip a beat.

I celebrated only sadness in peace
Grief looked so weakening yet powerful.
It surrendered few lessons in transitions,
taught to not owe everything, i carry.
To find and embrace the resting peace
I am,
losing it's meaning everyday
I am the dilemma,
striving for authenticity.
I am the grey crayon
with a slitted and pointed tip.

I paint throughout more darkly
to make the canvas look colorful
but my eyes watch shedding colors
and my pauses are intense
leaving marks with a texture.

Happiness is like poison
because the next moment
I see, is the blood oozing out
of all the people i love.
I collect all of it
to write that
"I miss you" with a leaked heart.

I pump my unsettling breath
for it to look like patience
I want to look like
the reason people believe,
you derive grief twice
and you will breathe in power.

I have now become a poem
of only strong punchlines,
which are made of nights
where i had consumed myself.
My head is now a revolver,
bullets loaded with lonely unresolved chaos.
A barren land to shoot and unload,
will be the revolution of destruction