Poetrika

 Here you get to read my favourite poems. Poems I have been cuddling at nights, poems with whom I dance, poem which makes my heart a helium balloon, poems which you'll find in the back of my math copy. Poems of all kind, of all emotions. 

1. Acoustic poem

Sun was upon the pollen
of the china rose,
returning to sleep
on her mother's lap.
Its luciform rays yearned
for that lost aubade,
amidst the quiescent blues,
to muse for the auroral eyes.

My heart weighing the
Aphrodite's curse,
tangled with the laurels
hanging lazily in your garden.
And on such a day,
crimson essence becomes
my only nakama.

The sky, now the sailor,
sailing resplendent songs,
tuning with my heart
in one summer eve.
The poems lying on the sand,
glittering in the mosaic shades
of red, crimson, and unsung love
faded, forming our fossils.

Droplets of departure
now encompass my voyage,
Mo(nu)ments created while
returning home falls like the pollens
I rested upon once, and the red
of the china rose
now fades with the sunset.

~Adrika

2. A poem about mother

3. An Emoticon poem.

4. A night poem.

And then, tossing
everything the
nocturnal heart
drank more
darkness than
milk, yearning
for the hoots
of owls, a flight
of the nightjars,
and a person to
fill her vacant pillow
beside. She digs
inside, listening the
lullaby sang by father-
who sometimes
dozes while singing
but again wakes up
to sing with his
tired voice for
his beloved child.

That crestfallen moon
spirals in the eyes
of the nocturnal-
after a fortnight.
Her eyes were like
the bullets, the one
you use while
writing answers,
speaking with the
tardy euphoric sky.
The moon was in
hurry to hug the tides,
and the scintillating
hope ties the waves
so that it doesn't
crash her heart.


On those winters,
when Orion forms
a mandala in the
back of her math
copy, another
lullaby gets attached
to her heart, becoming
a covalent bond.
She plays a game of
tug and war with
the bluish hues
forming a kaleidoscope
in her fantasy playing
with the fallen hair lying
on that vacant pillow.

She cries with her
sad, sad heart-
wilting and falling.
The stars know
her heart isn't black,
maybe it is broken but
it still breathes with
pieces of memories
of the face, fresh
like the peach and voice
sweet like that fruit
when it mingles with
her tongue leaving an
essence of loneliness
and the urge for a goodbye.

And, when that
vacant pillow would
get filled with her tears,
the nocturnal would
become a heliophile
bathed in gratitude
for the sun, knowing
goodbye isn't her cup of tea
not because she never
fed on breast but because,
whenever she wanted to
drink, a piece of night
swirls like a strand of hair
in her milk, making
her heart become a
nocturnal once again
craving for that lost
touch, eloping euphoria.
-Adrika

5. A lost lover poem.

I couldn't send you that pigeon
holding your letter,
not because I left
the letter incomplete
but because I didn't know
how to make a knot
around its feet.

I don't know
how to tell you this,
but I have put those scraps
of rendezvous inside
that vintage diary,
you kissed last time
saying, "We'll meet again."

I do see the summer that was
caramelized upon the
pretty flowers, fluttering
with the winds and
boasting the diamond dews
dressing it with a tiara
meant for you.

Your footprints were vagary
settling upon my heart,
sometimes with the marks of
your barefoot tickling my atriums
and sometimes with the high heels,
bumping in the oxygenated blood.

You were just an incomplete letter,
pretending to kiss the diary
when actually, you were stealing
the remnants of our rendezvous
to tie it with your heart,
and putting it as the diamond for
your tiara.

And maybe that is why I never
learned how to make a knot,
because you already took it
from me and tied our
"we'll meet again" which
my teary eyes read, "we met again."
~Adrika

6. Fighting sadness poem.

7. A poem for teens

I am sometimes an Oreo biscuit,
kept with a pack of Marie biscuits-
where the brown crumbles of it
get stuck with the black of the Oreo.

I am sometimes an aloo tadka,
made with too much jeeras,
that your tongue experiences more
pricks than the juiciness of aloo.

I am sometimes a ketchup stain
confused with periods'- You apply
soap and stain removers only to find
a white spot on the beautiful fabric.

I am sometimes the pink color
made by mixing red and white-
where you mistakenly added
more red color than white.

i am sometimes a poem most people
think to be perfect, but little did they know
that i neither rhyme nor maintain the shape,
i can only be a sentence with misplaced prepositions,
jumbled words, broken articles, and unequal lines.

I am sometimes just a dream whom you leave alone
thinking to be a nightmare-
Maybe I am just a "sometimes" who took some of your time,
not to make you smile,
but give you an "always" with vague endings.
~Adrika

8. A love poem.

There was a little space between our fingers
where you wanted to embroider our love.
You asked me to hold the needle
but little did you know our love was slippery
like the thread missing the needle's hole
every time you brought it near my hands.

~as if, all along, our love was an infatuation-
a false pleasure like that gold imitation
I brought for you, calling it the real one.

What if one day you realize that
your heart never fitted my fist
and that is why I wasn't able to hold
your smiles, so let them become your tears
which you never got a chance to wipe on
my shirt and call it a place of comfort.

~as if, all along, the line we drew
appeared to meet together from
afar, but like the virtual images
it was just a handful of dotted lines.

The time you believe in the rays of a dying sun,
you thought the shadows forming were our love,
But, dear, I was always resting in the shadows
of another's heart pretending it to be mine.

~as if, all along, you mistook the planets
to be the twinkling stars, not knowing
that planets never twinkle.

But between love and lies, we captured
too many sunflowers you wished was rose,
too many rainbows after a storm,
too many constellations, which
I let free of the jar: a sign that
I muse freedom as my heartbreak.

~as if, all along, the crosses while
playing tic-tac-toe, which you thought
would cross your heart one day,
multiplied into grief because our love
wasn't tailored with hands but with machines.
~Adrika

9. About self love

10. Mukh-mitha wala poem (a sweet poem)

 

11. A poem about loss

I store your memories in a coffin.
Some days these memories
are like excess caffeine keeping me awake,
and somedays these are like blankets
seeping some coolness to doze me off.

If life was a pack of twenty shades of crayon,
then I would be the child who doesn't use
them to color picture books,
but break them into two pieces to make candles
because this time when you would break
your promise and go away to make a constellation
forgetting about putting a smile on me,
I would ignite it in my heart's darkest dungeons.

Your memory, to me, has been a 'pan box,'
holding more gossip than 'pan.'
You would come to me red tongued
and your breath would sting my nose
more than your departure would.

There is a reason I don't trust air.
Somedays, it would carry your smell
with the wafts,
someday of the food, you used to make,
but most days, when I look at the photo frame
the air smells of the smoke-
the smothering one.

Your promise was like a child who
carefully keeps her new eraser safe in
a pencil box only to find out it's missing.
Every time you whispered, "In you, lies my world,"
you meant I was just another lie
the child told her mother about losing her eraser.
~Adrika

Do you think I'm gonna stop with just 11? You know me right. If you don't want to miss any of my upcoming poems which I'll add here subscribe to my mailing list<3