Amaranthine; a blog of original poetry

 Misty hills, Conifers, The smell of wet moss, Rocks hiding and surfacing like floating crocodiles . I sit here with paper and pencil, Thinking of drawing this scene. The thought feels like a hug, And the drawing feels like a hug that'll crush my ribs. Mist hills, Conifers, The smell of wet moss, Rocks hiding and surfacing like floating crocodiles. But all I can draw are houses with no windows, And people made of sticks. All I can draw are hills like pyramids, And trees with green clouds on their branches. I give up And sit thinking about drawing. At least, The hug is soft now. Become a Patron!

 The apple that fell on Newton's head never left. It stayed there And began to grow trees, That shook in the wind whenever he walked, And dropped more apples on his head. Then his head hurt so much That he tried to uproot the tree. The roots held on And the leaves and apples feel onto paper As gravity, Due to gravity. The roots held on And grew mangoes this time. He died trying to get rid of that. Thank god he did. We might have to study that gravity smells like mangoes otherwise. Become a Patron!

 He takes off his shoes before he steps in; Smoothly Like walking out of a Rolls Royce. He takes off his shoes before he steps in To dominate, Decimate, Make us feel we should never play badminton again. We run around for the shuttle Like we're carrying basins to catch the water from a leaking roof, Not knowing from where it will leak. He takes off his shoes before he steps in; Smoothly Like walking out of a Rolls Royce. And he'll leave soon as well, Getting back into his shoes, Going to hide away in his own lair. And Elvis has left the building!

 Is the beach devoid of footprints Or are there so many that they bury each other. Either way, it's the same. There is no path for anyone to follow. And no one can make a new path that lasts, Because one buries the other. Then some people try to surf; At least, Those lines in the water will last longer. Is the beach devoid of footprints Or are there so many that they bury each other. Either way, No one goes anywhere while being noticed.

 I watch the surfer on the beach; How he adjusts to the waves so well, How he conquers them big ones And makes them small ones into calm water. How he knows where the tongue of the sea will touch, And how he escapes it every time. I wish I could do the same. I wish I could do the same Here on land. But the sands engulf me And my feet are the only surf boards I have. The sands engulf me And I run to the sea to wash it off my mouth. But then, The waves catch me And I die Because again, The only surf boards I have Are my own feet.

 I grow flowers in old boots; A pair that was stolen many times. I grow flowers in old boots And put them in the sun And water them often. No one wants to steal them now. All they see are the flowers, And all they smell is the pollen. The shoes are right there And no one wants to steal them now. Maybe Being damp all the time isn’t such a bad thing. Maybe Having no soul isn’t such a bad thing. Maybe Being ignored isn’t such a bad thing. The daisies die And I put roses in them. But still No one steals the boots.

 Life is chains And not tickling feathers. But it cannot deflate me. The basket can be made of thread. The basket can be made of chains. But the ball will always fall through. And it will come down To go in Again And again And again. Life is chains But it doesn’t tie me down even a bit. The chains don’t matter As long as the basket has a hollow The ball can fill for a little time. And the ball goes in Again And again And again.