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Almost Unfelt
Sumit Goreja
Copyright © 2017 by Sumit Goreja
All rights reserved.
No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise, without the express written consent of Sumit Goreja.
She loves my poetry,
but she doesn’t know
that she is reading herself.
First, let my lips pen
some words on your skin
then tell me if they are not
poetic enough to seduce your heart.
Let me in
the way you invite
smoke into your lungs,
through your lips;
and I promise,
unlike your cigarette,
I will rather fix,
not damage the things.
She touched me like
I’m the last saddest poetry
in the world;
devouring every part,
running her lips
through each word,
turning my scars
into a piece of art.
She dived her bare
emotions into my eyes,
and I pulled her deep
into my tears.
Both were exposed
to a feeling that
was left unfelt.
She fed me.
I felt her.
And we both
became one.
Before you undress her
to quench your lust,
first make sure her heart
is high on your love.
But whom do I complain,
for your sight left
my eyes mesmerized
without my consent;
now they demand
nothing but
you.
I wonder how many stars
the sky had to shoot
before you said yes.
You are becoming
my ocean of secrets,
I like its silence
but afraid of its depths.
Drunk and Sober
are the only times
when the gap
between my fingers
craves to be filled
with your intimacy.
I want my tattoo
with your ashes
in the ink,
so I can feel you
even after you
are gone.
Dig a grave
in your heart,
my soul demands
to breathe in you.
My skin demands
your bruises to be
explained in a
seductive language.
Thousand miles
away you are
but not distant
from my memories.
Zillion years might
have passed
but you are still here
living in my heart.
Too bad you can’t
drown my emotions
for they know how to swim.
I want her to kiss
the wounds out of
my mouth until they heal.
If love hasn’t
unearthed your soul,
you haven’t experienced love.
She is a storm I happily once embraced,
now ‘am chaotically dancing
in her whirlwind
trying to shun a step of death.
Her fury prods my mind into
stripping my thoughts,
then ‘am blamed for leaving
her feelings undressed
and turned on.
For she demanded
to sense heaven,
I let my lips take refuge
below her earlobe
until her upper eyelids
met the lower.
She leaps over the
unprotected wall of my heart,
shrouds my senses in her
indelibly seductive words,
tactfully colonizes my beats,
and turns me into her slave.
So be that last hope,
the visible shore
that can be seen with
lost eyes of mine.
When she halted
rummaging through
her shuffled thoughts
to find her better half,
that’s when my vagabond
heart found a home.
Break my bones
for it has no blood to shed.
But break not my heart
for it has no bones to repair.
Because sometimes
you have to let your eyes
wet your cheeks
before your lips
make your heart smile.
I found her
after being lost
when she was
lost in someone else.
Last night my body
overdosed on her feelings,
by the morning,
necessity-of-happiness
was the reaction
she turned out to be.
“You can’t even write two lines,” she says.
And when I write three,
she begs to understand the depth.
I have become
a victim of your disease,
for I too can’t sleep
even if I read.
Fuck thousands of miles between us.
I like how you turn me on
even with such distance.
She has tangled her simplicity
in the web of chaos;
now awaiting to be disembroiled
with the help of hope
that long before was put to grave
by her senseless thoughts.
Curves might quench your drool
but loyalty will nurture your soul.
Oh, how she often enjoyed being a sadist;
touched him in the places and got high,
then gave him blue balls and left him dry.
Chained to her wit,
my sapiosexual demon brushes
even her testimonial touch off.
See I not how else can she calm
the rush of my blood than in her writings,
for I feel so steamy by
how she assembles the words.
Yes. I envy the walls
of your room
for they hear
your silence
more than
my ears do.
She looks so beautiful even
in her fifty shades of sadness,
it makes even my poems
stay loyal beyond her grave.
His unconscious
was a tryst where
often she would,
like a vortex,
appear unheralded,
fumigate his dry life
and give him not less
than a wet reason
to dream more.
She moans all day
and the one I pay
only attention to
is when it whispers
my name.
You know why I still put up with you
even after sensing you bitter and strong
because you open my eyes to reality
just like my morning coffee.
My pen has eloped
with her imagination,
now all I hope is
they come up
with a cute little poem.
When her incisors took
a refuge beneath my earlobe,
her unruly nails wandered down my spine
torturing my conscious into blurting,
something her ears longed
to take pleasure in:
my confessions of love.
I sympathise with myself
for being too poetic,
for now she demands
not my touch
to get turned on.
Between the vacillation of
giving his breath a hiatus or
letting his guilt usurp his life,
she walked in like a hurricane,
reigned his destiny,
laved all his sins away
and gave him a wild reason
to breathe ‘yes’ in the world of ‘no’.
Because every kiss of yours
tells me a different story
with a touch I can’t handle,
you leave me wanting you more.
And when she was striping
herself right before me,
it was as if my eyes were
opening to a new genre of poetry.
You don’t even need to feel
my love to melt your heart,
just read my poetry.
Feigning ‘am okay
without the pure taste of
your tongue on my skin
makes me insane.
She wants you to be poetic
after you have made love to her,
not before so you can get laid, you dog!
Loneliness was driving her crazy,
so she began talking to the echoes
of her own voice to feel sane.
Of course the silence between us
gave a birth to a brief moment of shyness,
but if we had any hopes of assaulting
each other erotically, it was only then.
And her simple touch
stampeded my heart beats
while blood clove a path through
the valleys of my stomach
and reached the place that
awakened my irresistible need for her.
And his gift arrived bearing
their seductive memories
to light up her dark path of loneliness.
When you find someone
whose IQ is better than your face,
you must hold onto that person
like a son of a bitch.
I don’t want to be
the sun in the morning
that ruins your sleep,
but its light that keeps
you warm when it’s cold.
I don’t want you to sniff her perfume
and assault yourself in the washroom.
You seem to have rare taste,
let’s mate our words and see
what poetry they breed.
When you die,
I want to get high on your ashes
and never feel sober again.
Ain’t sure what these collywobbles
about you are in my stomach,
but I’m loving it like a masochist.
And her skin is like
an untouched paper,
not even looked upon;
demanding my lips
to write an untold story.
And when the shadow
of her muffled words
shrieked louder than her,
that’s when he knew
she has an appetite for him.
Her lips taste like a wrecked wave
that needs a kiss to reach the shore.
Clouds were burnt to ashes,
sky was bruised to death,
stars were tortured to suffocation,
and night’s silence was
disturbed to numbness.
World was on a verge to collapse,
and there we were: disrobing,
showing each other our naked minds.
From eyes to thighs,
every moment was
so blissfully quivering
that my wounds were
left no more in a doubt.
I was in love with
booze until I met you,
and now I drink coffee
so I can keep my fingers
wide awake and stay
high talking to you.
Yes, I do relish your
cerebral conversation,
but you know how
sometimes it’s careened
down an imbecilic path
that leads towards your shopping…
I begin to miss your absence.
Finding her is like witnessing
that happiness when in childhood
our hands stumbled upon ten bucks
in the jeans that were long forgotten.
When I let her in,
her lips autographed
a contract on my skin
for making no attempt
to tame my emotions;
now they are caged in
her heart for not penning
the consequences if breached.
And I would bury myself
amid the lost mountains
where none can intrude.
For I only long to breathe
the echoes of your love,
and smother my emotions
for unforgivable sin I did.
I’ll disrobe my skin
to greet the welts
that would speak of penance.
Hundred or a thousand years,
I’d dangle my breath
in the noose of your scent
for my soul to meditate
your eternal presence,
and reincarnate again
for guilt that can only
be buried with the
touch of your tender lips.
And my heart demanded
to feel sorry for her,
for her mind dwelled upon
the delusional shadow
that my pen always danced,
and danced only for her.
But first, your feet have
to taste demons in me
to walk with my sanest part.
But darling, first make sure
your words have tasted the meaning
of selflessness before they demand
my pen to write our future story.
It’s a disaster,
how once we ineffably relished
bruising ourselves,
and now, not even a wish of falling star
can chime our thoughts on anything.
I poured my emotions
down her throat in
a quest for home,
but can one really find a
home in the sea of vagabonds?
You misunderstood my chaos
and now you are lost in my simplicity.
We feel more than some animals
maybe that’s the problem.
Butterflies last only for a week,
give my stomach something
that breathes longer than my grave.
She cocooned his
emotions in her wings
while her words
set his soul on fire.
Because happiness is not enough,
we need pain to feel good.
Befriend yourself
with loneliness
neither will you
feel lonely
nor will you
miss any of
your friends.
I’m sorry
your shadow
reeks so loudly
of imperfections
and flaws that
I can’t hear what
you are saying.
The only bitter thing
my senses find sweet is
black sugarless coffee,
not your soul.
No darling,
even my dog
can assemble
the words;
you can’t call it
your poetry
when I’m your
imagination.
Her face imprisons my eyes
but her IQ sets them free.
You say my thoughts stink.
How can they not
when you are the one
lingering in my head
begging to be read
like a cheap book?
Your broken promises
seem to be rhyming
in my mind with the lyrics
that were written for a cuckold.
Vengeance begets fire,
and ‘am getting addicted to incense
of the flames I have set you on.
Drunken thoughts lurched forward
to rekindle the memories when
wine was sipped from your lips
and bed sheet was left stained.
Memories are the perfect
meals to eat when heart is asleep
and mind is too conscious to digest.
“I’m only yours,” she said.
He kissed her until she smothered.
“Honey, I’m a poet. I know when people
camouflage their words,” he replied.
Sorry, it was hard to undress the truth
but you had to be revealed.
I don’t interact merely because I care,
and I want not you to witness your heart
shatter into a million pieces just because
you believe in love and I do not.
Seek no love
for it will bring no good
but water the seed of love
for it shall bring no hate.
And in the end,
it matters not how
cruelly it breaks us,
we will always end up
yearning for a bit more.
That’s the crazy thing about love:
the cause of disease itself is a cure.
Oh no,
I need to be born drunk
to fall for someone
other than myself.
Life will always be a labyrinth,
and you will always find yourself lost
just when you think you have
found an exit.
Stoically I stand on the shore of death,
waiting for a wave to breathe me,
flashbacks fraught with difficult pleasures
nudge my thoughts from being inhaled,
reminded I am of the ones
I need to breathe a little more for,
and that, life is an unfathomable metaphor
that no human can decipher.
From the ashes I breathed buoyancy.
Witnessed hopes arise
after long dormancy.
Sensed high spirits
resuscitate itself from death.
Felt success basking in newfound life.
Once again, dust I taste.
Life is back to the ashes,
staring at me like a blank page.
For my bottle of wine craved
to taste oxygen, so I let it taste me.
Now it feels intoxicated and I, so empty.
Drink I often to watch my conscious sleep.
For it takes me up in the sky,
far from the dramatic people on earth.
It shackles my guilt from
wandering on the roads of nostalgia
and rescues my cheeks from
drowning in the river of tears.
For it helps to watch my eyes
witness sufferings fade,
and that, to cremate the self-annihilator
residing deep in my veins.
Sometimes there is nothing
as peaceful as cooping yourself up
in the room with some silent
rhythm and heavy booze.
As he waited with alacrity
in the witness stand
for life to gavel his breath
to exoneration or demise,
mustered he the moxie
to embrace whatever unforeseen;
for mattered what
is the urgency of the verdict
but not the verdict,
for his hope was exhausted
long before he was put on trial.
Sit down next
to your past life
and see if you can
walk with it in the future.
“I want you to pull me
out of delusion;
I want you to give me a kiss
that animates my grave,” said I to life.
Relish the glory while
my spirits are demised
for like a phoenix I’m
rising from my ashes
to prove my pen is
invincibly wittier
than your brain.
I like demotivators.
They push me to slap them
without touching their face.
It’s difficult to swim against the tides,
but if you manage to do it,
then you may find a shore
that no one has ever seen.
I wonder why people ruin
their life by chasing perfection
when it is already such a beautiful mess.
It is as if somewhere
we all unconsciously like
being masochistic,
feel no pleasure until
we surrender our little
heads to chaotic thoughts.
Why fuss over failure
when successful people
too die eventually, anyway?
Words on your tongue
are a brain of your mouth;
everyone possesses,
but only few know
how and where to
make its best use
Many learn the art of breathing happiness only when they face their last breath and are hit by the storm of flashbacks that are poured through the funnel of joy and realise that the days laden with sadness were actually the days they whined about the problems than dealing with them.
I’m so high on inspiration
even reality is afraid
to open its door for me.
He who doubts his words
never will he relish
the prison of success.
Nudged she my euphoric words
on the edge of numbness,
trampled my hope under
her feet for it to die,
shoved my confidence hard
for it to give in,
and clobbered my strength
to fall upon its knees
for it to not stand up.
But what my LIFE
couldn’t wrung out
is my SPIRIT
that stands over and again
like a son of a bitch to face her.
Treat me the way you treat your karma,
Because ‘am sure that is exactly
how you want me to treat you.
Underneath the skies of peace,
eyes only discover war.
On the bosomy lustful earth,
whispers contort with groans.
Amidst the temptingly epicurean trees,
fruits reflect the shadow of ego.
Into the water of holy ocean,
fish quest for the roars of silence.
Deep into the beatific wilds,
animals long to masticate succulent preys.
Up in the air of free will,
birds flutter down smothered.
In an almost predictably short life,
we volitionally choose to live crestfallen.
In a heavenly place called earth,
mankind seeks for paradise.
Ghoul’s Enlightenment
Lusty palpitations seek ways
to capture your unshared attention,
and concede fiendish,
but ruefully honest thoughts, and
to placate heart before it demands
to take pleasure in grave.
But a certain apathy of yours
resuscitates an unfamiliar demon,
residing lavishly against my desire
deep in my veins,
feeding me gluttonously the rage,
for me to muster nerve
to become him: a ghoul;
for me to pierce your heart in my mind,
and quench lusty palpitations
by witnessing blood
seep out of your pierced heart.
But no more matters it now,
for I set the ghoul’s feet on a pilgrimage,
and that, those satanic feelings are now enlightened.
The Apocalypse
And the pain itself would capitulate
feeling the bereavement of dead hearts,
Clouds would plummet upon earth
to wash the bones laden with blood.
The greed for love would
vanish the lust to win the war,
conscience would suddenly
shine like a twinkling star,
and eyes would shriek the tears of guilt.
Absence of ego would ignite
the flame of sinful memories,
and mouths full of laughter
would moan for mercy,
but too late then it
would be to beseech.
Every soul would be wrung
to merciless death,
and no god would pay heed
to the sufferers’ needs on his day,
and the day would be known as
‘The Apocalypse.’
The Call of Karma
World around you is dooming
You see my spirits aloft
Your eyes avert for a shoulder to count on
What you get?
Me instead:
A smile basking in a
sadistic notion of people’s agony,
a true betrayal of satanic angel
born in hell is what you face.
In your hour of need
you are heard not from your
loyal god you placed
your faith upon all your life.
You are hanged by hair instead
above the cauldron.
You hear each pore
in your body beseeching for mercy,
but now you find yourself
abandoned by your sole god.
Dangling like pendulum
above the cauldron
suddenly ticks your head
to face karma.
You watch your life slowly fade
brutally in pain as you come closer to fire.
You look into my eyes again
to look for a little human character
behind my sadistic smile.
In vain, you call the name
of god again for rescue.
My sadistic smile turns
into chaotic laughter
and you realize ‘am the god
of this place called hell,
and you are here by the choice
of your own god
for you to burn into ashes,
for you to pay for your sins.
Crawl back to the womb days
to see if really you were
this greedy and egoistic.
If you were not,
give then a two-minute silence
to the person who never made it
outside the mother’s world
as the same living being.
Our thoughts are nothing
but a path of life that moves
only in the direction we think.
And little by little we all die
but we forget to live a little
as days pass by.
And when forced again we are
by a spark of conscience to
relearn the meaning of life,
too intoxicated we become by then
to first bask even in the glory of
learning the art of unlearning.
No doubt ignorance is bliss
but having knowledge
and dealing with it wisely
is Buddha.
While you are awake, live.
A former copywriter, journalist and author of the book called The Essence of Rue, everything Sumit Goreja is today is because of his heuristic learning. He holds a degree in English literature and is a voracious reader; expressing his thoughts through words has always been his passion. From his experiences and achievements, he firmly believes that fancy degrees play no role in an accomplishment of one’s goal as far as there is a strong desire, passion and will to achieve it.
You can reach Sumit Goreja at [email protected]