Crimson lake
beneath the cimmerian sky,
and these brushstrokes of
black or prussian blue?
and some gold speckles
amid the patches of orange hue.

Some clouds, coated
with the tints of kids ?
what a peek a boo!
some clouds, strange,
taking the shapes of wrath,
daubing layers of beauty ?

And this silence, in awe,
neither hallow nor shallow,
with this Breeze, spreading
the fragrance of dying nosegays,
with this sky about to set
the night in ghastly tempest.

And who knows
I’m cursed when I’m painting
exquisite poems out of chaos ?
Perhaps, is this the reason
why I’m still alive
till this very gruesome sunset?

© Sanna

(Image – Hellish photography by Cari Richie)

Nostalgic Rain

There’s nothing more beautiful than a cozy rainy day, and the nostalgic feeling it brings you.

Ripe mangoes, and the scent of soil along with those giant trees around my gabled roof house. O’ I remember the dancing Ashoka trees around our entrance gate. They were in horizontal row.

And rain, how I loved to craft paper boats, and how I loved to jump in standing water.. I had a wonderful friend who is no longer on earth. How we played with our colour changing umbrellas…How we loved monsoon and mangoes.. And how we prayed for holidays to play…And how we shook plants after rain for the droplets to fall on us…And O’ how we picked Java apples after apple..How lovely and white-greenish they were… And how we fought eachother n’ loved eachother n’ fought…And how little we worried.. how often we played and made a fuss over everything… God, how we baked delicious memories for the days to come ahead.. but little did I know you would only be a part of my evergreen childhood days 💚

~ Sanna

( A/N – not a poetry. just the memories are rushing in, n i can’t help myself.. i miss white greenish Java apples, and my old friend who passed away) Sorry, I used a lot of “ands” for the rhythmic flow.

Woman’s Body

They say,
woman’s body is magical.
No, it’s magically tragic ?
a battlefield, a catastrophe,
a steaming hellfire.
At tender age of fourteen,
she bleeds, every month
of every year, fiercly
dying a thousand deaths.
how nights have stolen
the comfort of her cozy bed?
how exams and works
have lashed at her
with the feeling of ugh?

She bleeds and battles
half her life
only to be certified,
of being a mother.
And when it stops (for a while),
the good news is served.
But there it begins
the fatigue, the vomiting,
the swelling,
the itching, the twitching,
the aches and pains
and many more

And there comes a
inhuman scream,
a burning in hell
experience and a baby.

But it doesn’t stop.
There’s a session of
excessive bleeding.
You’ve not blood
for awhile. Yes,
mighty God knows it well.

And the weird changes.
The big breasts
bulge out, with blues,
and many more,
the shapes of sacrifice.

And there it goes..
She bleeds,
and a catastrophic birth
and bleeds and
a catastrophic birth…

Until she is fragile
with weird sacking breasts.

© Sanna Wren

(I used to wonder why the mighty God couldn’t find an alternative way to reproduce. It’s a curse. I’d call it, “a brutal curse“. Eve ate the forbidden fruit, n’ the God cursed her with pregnancy pain. How cruel! The curse had fallen over the entire humanity. It’s more like punishing an entire classroom for a mistake done by a spoilt kid.)

( Image taken from Google)

It hurts to be different

I’m an artist.
I’ve baked some
delicious lies.
With my
finest mask,
I lie of all
good god deeds
I’ve never done.
To please her,
to please him,
and to devour the love
I don’t deserve.

And when the moon
hides behind
these pale clouds,
I take off this suit
of imposter,
O! more like
unlocking a cage –
to gasp for breath,
and I cry like a child.

It hurts…
It hurts to be different.

But If I don’t pretend
to be in your halo circle,
I am bad, gross, wicked…

© Sanna Wren

Image taken from Google. Credit goes to the respective artist.

Aren’t you a stranger?

Do they really
know you?
Do they know
what you house
inside your walls?
Do they know
the fantasies inside –
the cobwebs of your head?
Do they know
of your thousand
tangled thoughts ?
Do they know
of eerie songs
of your heart ?
Do they know
that you court evils ?

and if they get
a supersensual eye,
won’t they stumble?
and if they’ve
delicate hearts,
won’t they die?
How tragic!
How terrible!

© Sanna Wren

( feeling sorry for my parents)

When will I live?

I’ve not yet lived.
I’m always
waiting to live,
Though I’m ensnared
in fatigue,
I keep hope
at the far horizon,
of a miracle,
that one day
I’ll be up the roller coaster,
up the sky, living…
like other happy
vibrant people.

But when?
it’s my 23rd year,
n’ I’ve not yet lived…..
Oh my excruciating
thoughts and poems,
Oh my venomous
worries and fears,
let me look at the blue
blue sky for awhile ?

I’ve not yet lived.
It’s terrifying!
years are slipping away,
and my death
is not far away.
when will I live?
tell me, when will I ?

Will I ever live ?

© Sanna Wren

( when this thought haunts you in midnight, n you’re here 😶)

What’s holding you?

Why should a person hold on/ move on when life is nothing but gloom, eclipsed with everlasting gloom and despondency ?

Why should a girl hold on/move on when her life is nothing but encircled by concertina wires and barricades ?

Why should an introvert hold on/ move on when people mockingly blame you amid the anxiety attacks ?

Why should an awkward person hold on/ move on when insecurities yell louder than thunder and smash you ?

Why should a weary woman hold on/ move on when her life is trapped under the feet of a man ?

Why should her heart beat when nothing of her love counts ?

Why should we live a horrible life when death can exquisitely stop all our worries and fears ?

They say, talk to someone, talk to him, talk to her, but for goodness’ sake, die alone.

If you recite your overflowing waves of worries and blues to someone, you’re expanding the depth of your doleful heart. Next day, you’ll worry, thinking that they worry about you of worrying. You’ll worry, thinking that they worry about you for not seeing any progress in you even after being all ears to their beautifully sewed advices. And won’t they get sick and tired to spend a lifetime with an ill poet like you? Acknowledge them that you are not just a seasonal poet with seasonal blues.

They say, hell is awaiting to welcome you, suicide is a sin in the book of God… Yes, God wants to kill you all by Himself. Who are you to do his villainous role ??

But here you’re,
either fear of death or little love for life is holding you back ?

From a corner, I’d tell you killing oneself is an act of bravery.
So does living the hellish life ?

Either fear of death or little love for life is holding you back ? The enchanting art of this universe, sunset, vibrant flowers, singing birds, hullabaloo of kids in the street, serene morning, silver moon, great paintings…. Ever made you feel like you should stay here for a little longer ?? Ever made you feel like you only live once in this miraculously enchanting universe ?

© Sanna

Scintilla of art

It’s my 23rd Birthday ✨

Looking back, last year was exquisitely creative. I found a new way to express myself. I was able to paint down my weird imaginations, stifled feelings, mostly formless poems of my desolate heart. Yess, I painted before, but last year was a celestial year of colours.

“Though my days have been hard, art has taught me to love life despite despondency and gloom.”

If you’re someone struggling with overflowing waves of worries and problems, I’d suggest you to have a wall full of paintings.

When it comes to writing and chasing my childhood dream, I’m as slow as molasses.

What hurts me the most is the realisation that I’ve transformed into a hypersensitive being. Though I’m trying hard to get outta these blackholes, I couldn’t even find myself moving an inch out.

Only last year, I disappeared for more than 25 times to take chill pills due to my overflowing waves of worries and fears. I am extremely sorry for that, but detoxing and disconnecting are so necessary, especially when you live in an era of toxic media, and people who pretend to be good but are really venomous snakes.

“I’m horribly limited” not in a way Plath meant. But I’m socially awkward, and I’ve been encircled by concertina wires… And it hurts like hell to know that we’ve no place here. This world is for social butterflies. Universe, how I wish people would try to understand the scalding blisters of my heart instead of ripping up my already wounded life

And Art…”Art has taught me to love life despite despondency and gloom 🎭✨”

Today I wanna thank you all from my bottom of heart. Thanks a ton for your support. Thank you, WordPress 💖

Exams amid traumas

satan knows
how every night
i battle with
tornadoes of my life.
how every night
i row across
these gigantic waves.
hell! i sank twice,
thrice and many more..
shark knows
the taste of my blood,
and the cold waves
in her attempt to
heal wounds –
almost killed me.

satan knows
how i struggle
to sow seeds,
and only he knows
how little I’ve,
to harvest for
tomorrow’s exam..

satan, exams are
no longer about
winning and losing
but writing, just writing….

when traumas
lash mist over
the windows of visions,
exams are not about
winning and losing
but writing, just writing…

(and dear kids
who write exams
amid traumas,
isn’t just writing
a kind of victory?? )

hail them, world.
hail them…

© Sanna Wren

( image taken from Pinterest. Credit goes to the respective artist )

Two choices

pink or red?
and i chose pink.

and i am lying on the bed
with a mind of swirling storm,
thinking of all other colours
i am not fortunate enough to have.

since my birth,
i have only two choices,
few choices,
and ugly concertina wires,
my border!

and if i am talking
about my favourite
sea green or sky blue,
they’ll cast their scary –
eyes on me to yell,

“never open that window, girl.
never… ever… open…”

© Sanna Wren

(image taken from Google)