Poetry: Javisth Bhugobaun

Javisth Bhugobaun

It is 19:10 and is there a drug to pacify my pain?
It is 19:10 and I see the city lighting up.
The light pole lights up that old statue 
In the park. The one where lovers pose,
Chanting their plastic love. 
The one where painters stand,
Illustrating an inconceivable beauty.
The one where I colour my eyes blue.
Can you see how she sculpted herself in my pupils?

It is 19:10 and there are so many promises lying on the floor.
So many dreams left to rot in an abandoned wing of my brain.
We lived on the sound of our heartbeats in sync
And dance in empty parking lots under the music
Of our breaths.
The lines of my notebook were filled with ink
That sourced from the forest of words that 
Lied in your autumn eyes.
Nothing made sense when our
Hands were fiancé. 
"We will have two children, a house near the beach...", the promises.

It is 19:10 and my heart aches.

I once had a garden

I once had a garden,
Full of flowers that I sowed myself.
They were in array.
I could see the crystal dew on their petals each morning.
I could feel their pleasure as the gentle breeze would
Caress them and the sun would give them warmth.
Each more soft and lovely than the other.
Very often, at night, the moon would watch
Over them for me, making sure
They still shined at night.
I would kill one for her each month.
And now, the moon watches over me during this winter,
Where they have all dried up and turned brown,
To keep me company.
She tells me to rest my eyes and dry my tears,
That looked like the dew on those soft petals...
I reply:
"How can I, when even in absolute darkness,
I can see her imprinted on the back of my eyelids.".

I blame...

I blame my tears for trying to drown
In the ocean of my sorrow.
Sliding off cheeks meant to be kissed.

I blame my melancholy for preventing me
Of enjoying the idiocies and beauties of life.
Hiding in my shadow, invading my life and dreams
Like a parasite.

I blame my heart for loving strangers fully,
Yet having no love for the one in the mirror.
For stopping me from sleeping
As it cries and wails and screams under my blanket.

I blame poets for dying and leaving only their verses behind.
Leaving letters, made from the soul, never to read
By those, it was destined to.
For living a life no one will understand.
For writing verses about what was meant to be felt,
Trying to make the ignoramuses understand us.

I blame myself for living in such misery.

Bio: Javisth Bhugoabun, 19 years old. He fell in love with poetry ever since his teacher showed him the beauty of words and taught him how to write. He lives in Quatre-Bornes, Mauritius, where he spent his adolescence submerged in poetry.

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