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Asmita Todkar Poem
Tricked by the tricked, checked by the fool
I opened the doors to your footsteps, thinking I'd feel different about you
Where love would softly welcome me, you molded me in it's cage
Prettier by it's name and fancy game
It all seemed telepathically mysterious until it all turned out to be the same
Bleeding through the marks, on the very frame you drew me hearts
"Don't know, don't care" came soon after crashing about old despairs
Letters written, words worth of thousands of poems
Down the drain to some clandestine affair
Silly how time passes by only for those kicking air, finding something
Binding, and fair in depths of nowhere only to be empty again
I tread lightly now, knowing you hold me there
We were poetry, only when I allowed us to be
But maybe you forget that I tell the stories.
Copyright © Asmita Todkar | Year Posted 2026
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Asmita Todkar Poem
I smile, I go out and I show no disdain. In the coldness of my four walls, I bleed out purely again, and again. I trace the depths of what I may have done, for you to retaliate when my hurt was placed on the table. Your heart pounding so loud, you threw words uncertain. Shattering the table into pieces, a splinter in my heart. The blood fills the floor, makes it slippery. You expect me to get up, instead of falling apart. And yet, I fall again. You watch me with a disappointed look on your face.
So, will you make a mess of me and beg me to stay clean? Worship you, like some deity? Tell me honestly, what bothers me, that you think is wrong. Every frame is from your reality, none for me. Do my words make sense, to a glass half empty person? Or do I feel like a daft imbecile? Does my voice haunt you for a while, when you stop and think of me? Is all this happening, dramatically?
I eat heartbreak for breakfast and I drink the coffee you make, with a dash of poison in it. I take it all with a delighted face, thanking your grace. I step in the sunlight even when it burns my face— your darkness makes me feeble. I faint. You lock me in that room again, feeding me your anger, your rage. I spiral down the stairs of your timidness. Time and time again, you expect me to be brave. You make a mess of me, and you want me to pray.
Copyright © Asmita Todkar | Year Posted 2026
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Asmita Todkar Poem
I might lose my mind, if I think of you. And yet I do. I do open the box that scratches up my wounds. In the most poignant way, you reach the surface of my pain, and dive deep in to draw more blood. You say you love me but you show only hurt. When you see her, does it remind you of me? When she blabbers, smiles, does the angry gesture that I would? Does that take you back in time?
Will you hurt her too, one day? Will she love you the way I do, even after everything you do? Everything you are? I see my reflection in her, crystal clear. She can see you, through my eyes. Maybe my tears dried up, maybe they got sent to her for safekeeping— until the day you bleed her dry as well. You ignore this, but do you miss me in August? Or the coldest days in December? Do you remember what you said?
My words don't form sentences enough to convince you. It's only 'cause you tie a rope around my throat— to silence the voice you once loved.
Does she make the same faces I used to? Can I please, get to love her too? 'Cause I do. I really do. Every fiber of my being yearns to know her. Well enough to one day, protect her from the truth. I hope you're good to her, the whole time, even if you weren't good to me.
Rotten fruits of the basket she's surrounded with, surely love comes at a cost. And I paid in full. Yet you keep me in debt, deliberately.
You despise me, don't you? For showing myself, the reflection of you. Eyes wide open at the truth.
Copyright © Asmita Todkar | Year Posted 2026
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Asmita Todkar Poem
A bundle of nerves tied in a knot as tight and as tangled as eldredge, around my neck, while the fuss of the life around me drowns me to chaos still. I go into waters so deep it gets hard to swim back up. The minuscule parts of my muscle throb and fight my being in a different kind of pain, wanting to be freed. Wanting to run a direction so divergent we may never find our way back home. And yet the longing for a explicit homestead stays.
The head of mine is participation to an all-time war, that only and only asks for my sanity as its reward. Every bone in my body gets the signal through every other fiber, to shut it up!...and yet I can't.
I think about jumping off of very tall somethings, but a voice in my head laughs at my own visions of a certain indiscretion. Like a breed of my own monsters calling out my cowardice. While a soft, warm being hides behind the door forcibly closed with locks too hard for her to open. She knows something I don't.
The volume, pressure, expansion, contraction- nothing works through the cavity. Nothing bleeds for lucidity, only for the curse I cage myself with.
Copyright © Asmita Todkar | Year Posted 2026
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Asmita Todkar Poem
The artist is absent, i guess i killed her off. Built her, just to break her- like a ceramic cup in the decor. A sway and the pieces fall, broken down in chunks of her pain. In the story of everything, the art suffers- tight ship, bad weather- nothing helps. There's no shore to go to. You stay with the wind, flock with the waves like a clueless bird, hoping someday you'll reach a comfort of a place you get to call home. I didn't feed her soul- with words full of love, hate, sad, happy- all she can feel is a hole, in her life where the content used to be. Where the quill-and-ink rested along with a page, ready to be scribbled, ready to be filled with her mind's rage. The ink bleeds once or not at all. It's tiring, having to walk in the spring season, fresh air, new hopes different dreams and yet feeling like the fall.
Every step she takes, every mistake she makes, all the roadblocks that make her feel nothing at all. Carnations over her gazettes, no scriptures, no memories to recall. It has faded into nothing yet she bleeds it somehow. The writer is absent, I think I've killed her off. Clueless in her own world somehow.
Copyright © Asmita Todkar | Year Posted 2026
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Asmita Todkar Poem
What is earth without ART?
But what is art without a poet— a society of poets?
All different perspectives, different souls
On the path to find their own home
Forced to be a doctor, an engineer or a businessman
Ink dried from the veins of the hand, quite before the words were laid out to be read
Or maybe forced down, to be blown up to pieces, by a culture of hatred
Never seen the sun to write the next word
Much hurt was caused, before the prose hit the waters
To travel to the lands where it would've been heard
Seen, understood and praised
To be vulnerable
But oh, what a privilege to never be fazed
The morning sound of the birds to the exploding sites of the world
How does one get away with life in such terms?
Pain, process, repeat— for a second and gone
We live in a world that's numb to it's mistakes
"Past is past" but what about past being the present?
Everlasting effects on the affected and termed to be "peasants"
Of the people who only see their own glamour fit
The next soldier, the next man or woman with their child in their hands
Only not a beating pulse, plain fear and anger surged
What of that poet we may have lost?
Does their life not come at a cost?
Do we blame their god, their religion, their caste?
Or the colour of skins vastly spread through the globe, that makes us get past
The art we may have lost?
The earth, we may have worked to end in a blast...?
Copyright © Asmita Todkar | Year Posted 2026
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Asmita Todkar Poem
Confetti on the floor and the curtains close, a shadow amidst the crowd catches her eye
The deft moves and the grin of a Cheshire cat
And the stars in her eyes
Fell for the glamour and the vibes
Vowed to the art, till the bright sunrise
Then the clock strikes twelve and the sleepless night
Brings the opal-eyed knight to a lifeless fight, of the tales and the cuts
And the chaos of the worlds, they portray
Where they shine, where the pieces truly shatter
The life of the gray and the brave
The showgirl survives yet another sky
Then the king walks down, to the aisle through the hall
Watches her carry out, the story of her downs
And ups and seas, and the talons of her enemies
Imprinted on the plays she puts forth, through the magical prose
And the showgirl sees, the little-st of her dreams, in reality
Wakes up from the fate of the fortuitous mistake, the lights dim down
But the glow never dwindles cause she wears the crown
A vessel of hope, a beacon of woe
The showgirl survives yet another night.
Copyright © Asmita Todkar | Year Posted 2026
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Asmita Todkar Poem
Don't try to make a home in my heart; the cracks in its walls may expand at any moment. Don't make this into what it never was, I'm done begging to your selfish cause.
I sit at the place we built together for years, and I am alone at the table. There's the buzz of the crowd, sounds of dishes and cutlery clunking, my mind- it only knows of your absence. I hear my own breathe in you silence, so loud. So vile. You give love and you take away, as you please. Your foolishness keeps me in pain, suffering.
Crinkets of laughter and tears and joy, back in day. Your words like the slash of a sword take it all away.
Don't make the home, don’t call me again. I won't answer, knowing of the mistake you've made. Previously home now just a house with four walls, it's surprising what karma does when you hurt the ones you love. Life showed me days with tears and somber nights, but what it did to you must've been worse. For I went through while you hid in disguise. I wished you no pain and yet you tied a string of your lies around my throat. At the kitchen table I sit, wondering, where'd my baby go?
I'll draw comfort in knowing the best of you, while I leave the worst in my words. And my worlds- that I make- stories that I share. The side of my own, the points that I didn't get to make. Didn't I flaunt my love, before you bit the dust? Didn't I tirelessly pull you to the surface, before you chose to drown in what kills you?
Questions I may never asks, answers I know I won't ever get. Trusting the way the universe works, and letting go of what never stays. Good luck and, au revoir.
Copyright © Asmita Todkar | Year Posted 2026
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Asmita Todkar Poem
I miss you enough to be warm today, my salt- stained pillows would tell you the truth
But the walls around my heartstrings may be made of rocks
So that no one may enter the fortress, you made for me
The fortune you left for me, of your ambitions, your radiance
I drown in melancholy, once in a while, secretly
But I keep finding my way, just like you'd taught me
I keep writing in hopes that you may read, or answer
Maybe talk? Send something from the clouds somehow
I keep writing the same things, I look at the sky
I know you and I, now cross down different paths
Me of life, you of land that never lets you make it back
Land of- I'd give it up in a second to see you smile
I know, i know- I'm foolish, I realize
I lost you to the worst part of time
So when I close my eyes, I see your face
I feel your warmth, your joy, your grace
And I see the light that'd would lead me down
To the roads you said would lead me home
All my what-ifs down the same way, to you
Always towards you.
Copyright © Asmita Todkar | Year Posted 2026
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Asmita Todkar Poem
We poets have a coven where we write our sins. Bewitched by the entirety and stringing words in beautiful threads of our own possibilities and what-ifs of the future, we fret, singularly, on a piece of paper. We hide our words between another few words that make everything seem hollow when in reality we are mellow and broken by the ghosts of our past. And the blurry waves of hope pass by our shore so we hang a little tight, even when everything gets hazed. We slip through cracks of our own imagination when the 'light at the end of the tunnel' is only an idea for the fools, we know the truth. There was never a light we broke the walls ourselves.
We love a soul and trade ours for theirs. The pages of our deepest fears are stuck with the ink made from our blood and tears. As ghastly as it sounds, it becomes our reality. Whether on paper, on a Microsoft Word file, or in the secret of Notes app- a writer always bleeds. A poet with no one to pay heed, to their words. Only understood my the gravest hearts. A single piece of parchment hidden beneath the deepest corners, lurking in the shadows of our broken bones and hurt that burnt us whole. Breathing is a sin to a tainted soul. Will it ever be okay?.. How would we know? So we form a coven where we write our worsts- the transcripts and the manuscripts sealed shut, only to be opened by fools who know what's what.
The poet in me has run out of blood
My veins are dry and full of dust, from my ashes
The weight of this stone-hearted world crushes my soul
Like an inch to death, the flowers don't have a root
There isn't a home, for my words and my wars
I wait restlessly
For fate, to do its magic
In reality.
Copyright © Asmita Todkar | Year Posted 2026
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