Blank Space (as explained by an introvert)

This.

This.

This is what my silence looks like

A dark room full of unknown faces

All of your eyes on me

Waiting for words that just

Don’t

Come.

These are my hands

Trembling at the thought

Of wading past an ocean of thousands of you

At the end of this night

Swaying me with your tides

Invading my silence over and over again

This is also my space

Empty but for my breath

These walls are my friends

All the same colour

But each with a different heartbeat

Slowly teaching me…. How to be

The space holds in it years

Of avoiding strangers like you

It’s what our mothers used to say right?

But while I was busy warding off the evil

I’ve also kept a few new souls away

It’s a price I pay and I pay it in plenty

And from where I’m standing

Silence is a precious prize

You’ll call me the quiet one

Wonder why I look scared

When you call me beautiful

Sigh when I look away each time you try to smile at me

Wonder why I have nothing to say

When you say my words have changed your life

You’ll deem me just a mystery

Intertwined with your life for no reason

“She’s just shy”, others will say

And you will wonder why I am not that shy on this stage

You don’t see what I see

You don’t see my blank space

This is also my canvas

Where I paint stories

Through relentless strokes of my mind

Stories of unrequited love and outraged fists raised in hope

Stuffed in jars like fireflies lighting up my nights

Where my realities collide

Burning through my dark skies like fire

Until my words like stars turn into dust

You may call me the introvert

Claim I dwell in caves

While I spend my weekends in empty rooms

This mind tethering at the edge of my page

You may even give up and walk away

To never come back again

But this.

This.

This thing u call a blank space

And shrug off because it’s empty

This is my whole world, my masterpiece!

And you…..are just a background.

Blue

My world is lost
with nowhere for it to find
I live dreamless
in a thoughtless mind

At length it comes,
this light across the dark room
it promises a cynical joy
a choice of flying over the moon

My mind says yes
the heart says no
I live in the paradox
of dreams that were overthrown

Is it just me
or do you feel it too,
This incessant need

for feeling blue??

Why so blue?

I met with the most common question today, and I left with the same question. Why do I write dark and gloomy poetry? I was, for the first time without words and so was Jane (our beloved poet and critic). She asked me why?
It looked like a scene out of a Shakespearean tragedy, there was everything: A renowned poet, a wannabe poet and a common court jester who knew nothing of the poetry and yet thought she knew everything. I had no answer really, it was like being the mean bully who walks up to a kid with a pink balloon and is one pin prick away from innocent tears. Jane looked visibly hurt. “She fails She fails” I had written, then I wondered was I even right in giving her the poem. But for me it was a rescue line. Dark poets never WANT to write dark things, they just do because their creativity almost never manifests itself otherwise.

My words almost never think of anything else. Why didn’t I think of the pink dress in a party and saw the futility of a society’s┬ádesperate┬áneed to socialize instead? I would never really know the answer to that. No I don’t see the glass half empty, I find the beauty and opportunity in that emptiness.

I don’t believe I’m a hero of the melancholy on the contrary, the poem was meant to be a hand out to be rescued. Dear Jane, I don’t want to be the tortured poet who has tears in her eyes every time she writes a poem, who feels like she is stuck in a bell jar looking at the world every time there is a celebration of joy. Perhaps I want to be that little kid with the pink balloon. Perhaps I want a world of rainbows and sunshine and feel creative in such a world.

Somerset Maugham once wrote about how writers write because they want to, but he writes because he has to. Do I write because I have to? Or do I wait for the world to tell me a story? Do I find the dark corners everywhere because the light petrifies me? or do I try to find the beauty in the dark because THAT is a bigger challenge?

Who is the hero, the one who finds the silver lining when there is none or the ones that dance in the sunlight pretending darkness doesn’t exist??