French Doors

Hi everyone and Happy Valentine’s Day! Sorry for my lack of posting recently, but here’s a little poem that’s quite appropriate for V-day since it’s about love, though it’s perhaps a bit on the sad side. Please tell me what you think of it in the comments and enjoy! -pc

French Doors

I. Untouched

Her head rests gently
On the little red cushion
Blooming fresh color into her rough skin
Skin of a thousand chipped swords
That had all broken somewhere
Deep down inside of her

The crimson of the cushion is but a handful
Of the blood that courses through her yawning veins
Filling up her body, softening her bones
But leaving only her soul

II. Imagination

Bright yellow buttercups fragrance the air
With their moist sunset dew
Wafting through her French doors
Those doors she swung open
Last Sunday
To fling herself
Into the crispness
Into the eloquence
Of the buttery morning air

She used to love
Running her broken hands
Along those doors and imagine them
Ambling down the cobblestone streets

Imagination is a glorious thing, no?

III. Remembrance

Her golden braids hanging down loose and straight
Down her back, caressing her neck
Flying behind her as she ran
Ran past grassy fields and stone-topped shops
The ones with painted bells that jingled when
She swung open the doors

Windows to her youth thrust open in her mind
And scenes of young love and sweet sin
Flit past her yawning eyes
Now merely black-and-white memories tucked away
Beneath her waning eyelids

IV. Innocence

She used to love kicking her wet shoes off and dancing in the rain
Tilting her head back
Letting the water touch her bare skin
But that was when she was madly,
Passionately in love with the world

That was back when she believed in love
When she liked its bitterness so much
She forgot how tasteless it really was

Back when her unbroken innocence
Forced her into implicitly trusting everyone
And everything
When she did not care whose arms she flung herself into
As she swung open the doors
When she did not care whose eyes she found herself staring wide-eyed into
Amidst the delicate waltz of the raindrops

And yet somehow it was always the same eyes, the same arms

V. Closing

And now with a deep sigh
That seemed to echo into every cobwebbed corner
She rises from the red cushion
As if to swing open the old French doors once again
And welcome the unfaltering rays back into the room

But instead
For one last time
She closes them


Keep Smiling

To whoever is reading this: please don’t ever stop smiling. Every smile of yours is a treasure for those around you to keep. You’re beautiful and lovely and wonderful. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. ~pooja

He Cries with You

Heavenly tears spring fast from the darkening blanket wound tightly around the sky

I run my bruised hand slowly over my cheeks caressed with the wet embrace

The crystal droplets winding their way down past my eyes, mixing with the salty streaks

Lovers separated lie weeping, broken hearts ceaselessly brimming

Standing in their windows and staring aimlessly past the street lights that burn brightly in the darkness

Watching the rain snake crazed patterns on the panes

Tracing the lines etched by the water with shaking fingertips

Quiet fires chasing away the pain and adding to the despair

Hope, the thing with feathers, lies broken like shattered pieces of porcelain

Words escape these young minds

That only look to the past, reliving the memories

Those abandoned black-and-white memories that haunt the weathered pages of their hearts

Their eyes are left to watch the distraught eyes of heaven

Those eyes that cry of reading the pages of unrequited passions

Those eyes that cry of seeing her slipping away from his aging mind

Those eyes that cry of writing their destiny

And They see it all

And cry

– pc

I wrote this poem a little while ago when it was raining as a sad ode to rain and love. Tell me what you think in the comments and enjoy!


If it was ever tangible, so real that its fruit dangled in front of your eyes, would you still stretch an arm to pluck it from its place? To separate it from its crooning branch that so firmly clasped it to its chest?

If it was so enchantingly glorious that the world rejoiced in plethora, in recognition of the excess that brought it to every wavering palm, would you close your hand around it? Would you still shut your eyes and smile silently to nobody but yourself?

If the moments of agony were no longer daggers but a sword of rose petals, would you still throw open the doors to greet the frightful knights that surrounded your palace? Would you still coerce the enemy into fighting a cruel gory battle with you?

If it spoke in a faint high voice that streaked through the crystal and was so clear you could see your reflection in its clarity, would you still find the beauty in the opaque? Would you still while away your listless moments in wonder, in strange guessing games it led you into?

If it was any of these, would you still call it love?

– pc

Tell me what you think of my writing and the poem in the comments!