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Best Poems Written by Sakushla Gunasekara

Below are the all-time best Sakushla Gunasekara poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Coffee With Them

I sit alone,
Rain peppering my coat,
I stare at the sky,
Gloomy, grey and sad,
Three words I never thought I would relate so much too,
But even in the gloomiest, dispiriting moments,
Love still stands around me,
So, reluctantly I sip the cup of love, destiny and dreams.
Hmm…
Nothing has ever tasted so bitter, sour and disgusting.
But then you come and sit beside me.
Offering another cup of love, destiny, dreams,
Because its from you, I give it another chance,
And suddenly,
Love, destiny, and dreams,
Have never tasted better.

- Sakushla Gunasekara Y7

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The Foxes

The Foxes
The Fox inside me,
It rumbles for revenge,
Death and destruction, power and fame.
While my other dancing fox,
Sings for love, family and all my dreams.
They fight every night, 
And sleep in the morning.
My evil little fox feeds off my bad choices.
And my still dancing jolly fox drinks to my good voices.
But through my hardship and life,
None of them support me,
They only come close to me, 
Whenever there are choices.
I try to ignore them,
But one choice is always right, 
So, I must resort to one of them,
So sometimes I make one choice,
Entirely of my own.
Then my choice goes wrong,
Leading to the wrong destination I hadn’t hoped for.
Only then the foxes agree,
My choices are rugged, 
And that for everything,
There is only right and wrong,
And nothing in between.
And so, I must once again choose.

- Sakushla Gunasekara

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Ephemereal

Who is this woman?
Who has made a sudden apparition?
Who lilted as she turned to look at me through the silvery haze of the fog,
Her Compelling, and faint yet loud to the senses, 
, gorgeous musky scent, complemented by notes of bergamot, milk and honey.
Her surreptitious figure snaking through the narrow and urban streets.
As she evocatively turned her head in an inviting manner,
Yet through the thin grey-flannel mist,
I saw her brown chatoyant eyes peer at my staggering figure,
Trying to get towards them.
Her lithe figure snaked past all the urbane shops, 
Trying to get the sweet scents of the exotic pomegranates,
Sitting on the red blankets of the shop fronts.
I kept on following,
The woman’s effortlessly unbroken flow of hazel hair,
That gave off a slight smell of strawberries and cream.
I realized then, 
As I closed nearer to her,
She gave off almost every pleasant incense that I could remember,
As the gap between us shortened,
She turned her face and started,
Walking backwards, 
In a lilting way,
Whilst facing me.
Her twinkling eyes looked like helix nebulae,
Many hues of color;
 if you looked closely,
But from far, only just one.
Her thin lips, 
the romantic insignia of innocence and youth,
and her pearl white teeth,
seemed to have a slight unevenness,
an imperfection that just made her purer.
Her chiseled yet very slightly chubby face,
Tilted in a suggestive manner,
Her small dimple in her right cheek, 
Pierced so lovingly into her face as she smiled.
Her hands swung low and blithely by her side,
And her slender fingers,
Slightly moving,
Rhythmically,
To the sound and tempo,
Of the whistling wind. 
She finally broke into a slight run,
And so,
I followed,
Until her run broke into a leap,
And she began elegantly leaping, 
From shop front to shop front,
Her aesthetic white dress,
Slinking serenely through and out of her lissome legs,
Until finally she seemed to give a playful smile,
And a wave,
Her face turned, and she jumped,
Directly into a wall, 
And then had I realized,
How much I had followed her,
I was attuned to her movements,
I hypnotically did the same,
Until I saw her stop mid-air ;
And give a sorry smile,
As I jumped, and fell, through the wall,
Right back onto my bed. 


-	Sakushla pannila year 7

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Scars

Scars
I really think I love my scars,
More than I love myself.
A memoir of my distorted past,
And forever, they will last.
I’ve never had a friend so loyal,
Beside me, so royal.
They sometimes hurt me
But then I see, 
It was my own doings that hurt me in the first place.
My scars may not be on my face,
But they are on my soul.
They remind me of myself,
What catastrophes I can cause.
My conscience silently thanks them,
For keeping me at bay.

- Sakushla Gunasekara

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Barren Land

The Barren Land

Over a barren landscape,
where nothing will cease to exist,
not even a grain of sand,
nor a beautiful lake,

the land is draped with damp, old fog,
the ground is plain and brown with bog
all there is a lifeless log 
stained with the blood,of a rotting frog…

Why the hope still exists,
no one knows, because the rain won’t save us,
nor will the sun,
And so our Barren Land remains to be standing,
forever arid and desolate …

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The Cliff and the River

The cold river rushed through the endless stream, 
a small breeze making the grass dance.
The waterfall gushed with fresh water,
it looked like a wall of blue satin, lined with silver.
The small birds glided peacefully, with their wings slicing through the air like a blade! 
The soft scent of damp water fills my nostrils.
The turquoise blue water is still, disrupted, silent and angelic.
The calmness of it makes one restless.
The sky was cloudless and cerulean,
and the shrubs stood as still as soldiers,
the fresh aroma of pine wafting through the clean air.
The beautiful alpine cliffs in the background, standing tall and proud,
their silhouette defined by the blinding sun, vivid and dazzling,
among the cloudless skies...

- Sakushla Gunasekara (Year 7)

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65636260

yes, hello,
i've come to talk to me,
an appointment? yes i booked one a week ago,
loving myself? yes, that's the one,
thanks, i'll be waiting,
they'll answer my call soon?
------
hey there me,
long time, no see
have you looked in the mirror lately?
you have changed a lot,
you're prettier than ever,
and wiser than before.
just give yourself the best of you,
before you give it to anyone else,
look in the mirror, 
before judging yourself,
you're the one you should love,
before anyone else.

[ thank you for talking to you~]

- by Sakushla Gunasekara
year 7

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The Wolves

The Wolves

Their eyes were jet-black beads,
scanning the dark night sky.
Fur as grey as dust on ancient legends,
but evil as modern machines. 
Their graceful frame,
as exquisite as they are,
Silent, yet beautiful predators.
[…]
Prowling the land,
rightfully theirs,
the pale moon, 
as their ghostly spotlight.
Their beady black, sequin eyes,
drinking in the night. 
But should you turn away,
blending in with the inky darkness,
they disappear.
But still,
can you feel?
Those eyes as cold as the Northern sea,
still watching you?

-By Sakushla Gunasekara [Year 7]

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The Storm

The thunder rumbled over ahead,
like a drum,
with a;
FLASH!
Here,
And a,
BANG, 
There.
As the clouds gathered over the sky,
like a mob of die-heart fans,
and the long, weedy grass danced to the beat of the rumbles and groans.
Then along came a man,
his beady eyes,
fixed on the swirling mass in the sky.
One hand holding a long, inky umbrella, 
and the other hanging by his side.
The wind surged through the meadow,
filling it with fright and sorrow.
The crows cawed over, ahead and the hillside seemed to fade.
The man stepped forward and the sounds seemed to stop,
 momentarily.
He flung off his traveller’s cloak,
and he raised his arms, as if to hug the sky.
And he blew off with the winds, to join the storms, 
as an equal. . . 

-Sakushla Gunasekara (Year 7)