Cipun Mishra

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Cipun Mishra (Cipun Mishra)

If hearts were landmines, you would be tripping one right now.

www.cipunmishra.wordpress.com

Top tags: life yqbaba love dreams heartbreak
Roads are spilling off your memories
like paint from the brush,
with which you smear moments
across my bare chest.
I am infinite in this moment,
like arms that stretch for lovers lost,
like imploding worlds inside explosive words.

(Full poem is in the caption.)

Her face twists into a smile, probably patrons of mercy are rolling in their graves. for crimes that I have committed; for every sin that I have lived through, there are very few gestures that save. Like sentences hang from the judge’s gable, her lips part without many words. I know there is escape, but how often do we walk into gardens with no intentions of plucking dreams from the wombs of a bud? I know there is escape, but how often do we step off the ledge with no intentions of being diminished to memory on the charcoal in pages? Her face twists into a smile, probably there are muttered prayers too sinful for sinners to sin. we whisper our prayers into each other’s ears like dirty gospels of bibles unknown. roads are spilling off your memories like paint from the brush with which you smear moments across my bare chest. I am infinite in this moment, like arms that stretch for lovers lost, like imploding worlds inside explosive words.

25 MAY AT 21:22

God, you choose to be funny tonight.
For my prayers knock on blankets
pulled from beneath cold feet,
you choose to mock me tonight.
I have had words in my mouth,
like broken jaws
every time my prayers were not enough
to save me.

(Full poem is in the caption. Feedback would be appreciated.)

Funny God. God, you choose to be funny tonight. For my prayers knock on blankets pulled from beneath cold feet, you choose to mock me tonight. I have had words in my mouth, like broken jaws every time my prayers were not enough to save me. These words like vomit are disgusting, but I have gulped them down. See, how fucking strong I am. And, every time, I throw up, poetry forms mosaics on the floor with punches you pulled and my defenses that failed. There is not enough light in the world to brighten lost souls. Like puppies who can’t return home, like poppies that crush themselves into poison, like trophies that melt their aluminum into your skin, see, you are a tinman now. Much like the robot your maid was, every time she came home from her house to wipe the floor with tears and disinfectant and a silly you asked- “hey, why are you crying?” and, she said – “because God is making up for the times I have laughed” You have often wondered if her bruises on the neck and the bruises on your recently married sister’s arms were the same. pain knows no color, no distinction. there is not enough light in the world to brighten lost souls. So, God, you choose to be funny tonight. I am laughing, I am aware. So, when there are broken tiles on the floor and the wallpaper is peeling off the walls, I would build you a memorial with a grave. I would put your cross across the same. You see, you are funny, God, but you know no address. I would put your cross as a joke, because you always like to be funny, and you’d find a homing beacon to detonate my nuclear heart. #yourquote #yqbaba #god #joke

23 MAY AT 18:07

We all are punctuations hiding behind emoticons.

Cloak and dagger.

5 MAY AT 17:06

It is crippling
to be so afraid
of sitting a few metres away
from a sea that winds at your feet.
I am afraid to get up
and walk up to the waves.
I do not know how to stop.
I would not know how to.
You look at the fabric of time
twisting itself through
Iterations of itself.
You let the tides turn,
much like waves crave for the moon,
like the wolf howls for the moon.
You are sitting a few metres away.
You can pine all you want.
The shortest of journeys
would become the longest,
you are petrified.

Fear.

29 APR AT 18:39

I wonder
if I am the only one.
Do you sit in the backseat
constantly imagining
how your car would crash,
and everybody would survive,
but you?
Do you let the sea wash your feet
and walk into it,
without any intentions
of stopping?
You dream up
scenarios where you drown.
It is almost funny
that this thought makes you smile;
you are smiling after an entire week now.
Do you stand on top of a hill,
look at the vast expense of flora
a hundred feet below,
and keep wondering if a gush of wind
would be so kind.
You were never humble,
you were never sweet.
Your parents admit
that they pray 
you were never born.
The stories on your skin
are just foolish attempts 
at setting bookmarks 
in a book that is burning from every corner.
I wonder
if I am the only one
who stand with open arms,
embracing death
like a lover you have not met for a long time now.

Old friend.

29 APR AT 16:43