Wassily Kandinsky/Wikimedia Commons
Wassily Kandinsky/Wikimedia Commons

His beige worn out shirt,
with patches of “accidents”
marked by paint strokes
and the touch of sadness
hanging by the hem of the sides of his sleeves.
Heartache smiles,
as he paints her lips
in the most luscious pink he could come up with
while his heart sinks
in every moment in between.

My father plays his piano off-key
hoping to see my mother sigh and shake her head
but she just smiles;
lifeless and distant, held back by the wooden photo frame.
He wipes a tear around the octaves,
tries hard not to breakdown by the quavers
And finally comes up with the most beautiful melody
reaching out as sunshine
for all the hearts in despair,
while he holds his hands with a tragic pain that takes his happiness away.

Poetry arrived at my sister’s doorstep one day-
at a time when she desperately wanted to forget about love’s aftertaste.
Now she looks for residues of her lost love,
in every verse she weaves
in every metaphor she gives life too
while her poetry smiles in a series of helpless sighs.

Bidisha P. Kashyap

Bidisha P. Kashyap

19 y/o aspiring writer, Bidisha P. Kashyap hails from Assam, India. As a part time poet and full time art lover, her works have been published in various anthologies, including poetry soup’s first ever issue, local dailies, virtual literary community pages and youth magazines. Apart from trying her best to come up with something new and pleasant every time, out of all the unsaid rants in her journal and her notes app; she admits that she has a slight obsession with tea, art supplies, books, daisies and winters. 


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