"Unbottled stories"

"Letting emotions flow, one unbottled thought at a time".

[genieinthebotttle]

Mother

Mother is not just a person,

It's a feeling,

That we feel

in places,

In people

Sometimes in homes too.

Like keeping our head on her lap,

with her fingers stroking our scalp,

when our heart finds its rhythm back

after a chaotic aftermath.

She gently unfurls each hair strand,

untangling the life we can't stand.

Sometimes a place carries

the whole world,

the moment I step in...

a tiny globe of her own,

feels like a womb,

accepting and protecting.

She is a nurturer, provider,

ocean of warmth,

I could survive anything

if she holds me in her arms.

It's not easy, everyone knows,

but when she is beside me

even destiny flows.

My home has become just like my mum,

the doors open up to light

when I am dark inside,

the walls trace my eyes

when my heart can't handle

those heavy tides.

Sometimes she directs me towards paper,

knowing only ink is my saviour.

Isn't she what mothers are for?

She keeps my pieces together

just like the spine of a feather.

Structures may come alive,

even without blood and skin...

like a breath of love

and the soothing rhythm

of motherly chimes.

🪶 génie

[genieinthebotttle]

[genieinthebotttle]

Feelings Unnamed

I have feelings… unnamed,

maybe called something, still, can't claim.

Especially when the clock gives 2:22am a cry,

why is the phone just a hand away from me?

It takes me to the windows I should avoid.

It's like you can pin your finger exactly at that point,

but your lips fail to utter words or give it a rhyme.

It's like teleporting to the same space,

that once made your heart race.

Like being with your favourite person,

Who holds your whole world in their gaze.

Like witnessing the same view,

a feeling like a déjà vu.

So what should I name them?

Or just let them be in my secret vault,

Which has been there since I was a child.

I open it once in a while,

when I feel lonely or miss being alive.

🪶 génie

[genieinthebotttle]

She — Both Ways

She resembles a cigarette

in its woody flavours

and burning rage.

filled with raw passion

wrapped in addiction

that lasts for ages.

A fire that burns

whatever is inside the cage,

a beating heart,

a pair of breathing lungs,

half open lips that look like art.

aglow hope my fingers are holding

between my ribcage.

A memory

half burnt, half ashes,

rising until it crashes,

and

making shapes before it washes.

leaving behind

burns and patches.

either to swim

or to drown.

she kills

she dies

both ways

She is always alive.

🪶 génie

[genieinthebotttle]

Haïku

Your touch took my fear

Warmth returns to quiet skin

I breathe life again.

🪶 génie

[genieinthebotttle]

Dancing with Death

Greetings, Sovereign of the Dark,

before you dim my little spark,

I hold a confession, bare and stark,

my heart longs to dance

to the tune you play,

and look you in the eyes

before my breath gives way.

for I, who find life sweet, yet it betrays,

whereas you are weary — yet you stay.

like a lone yacht on water so still,

with ripples so mild we hardly feel.

your eyes upon us, twenty-four seven,

one mistake and we turn to your raven.

I don’t want to pretend I am scared,

for I am not.

you are a spell lingering around me

that my lips never forgot.

to others, you are a word that scares the crowd,

but I like it when you quiet

my demons, my hounds.

sometimes you taste like blood inside my mouth,

as if you have brought back the warmth of my skin

that was lost

in frozen winters of the south.

You are the smell

that chokes the world,

acidic and loud.

but to me,

You’re the fragrance that moves my heart,

till it beats in rhythm, without a doubt...

🪶 génie

[genieinthebotttle]

Haiku

My heart rebelled still

most of the breaking season

undenying love.

🪶 génie

[genieinthebotttle]

Where do those hearts go?

When they grow heavy as snow—

With nowhere to roll,

They loosen,

They fall,

Into the unnamed and untold.

Where do those hearts go

When they grow heavy as snow?

🪶 génie

[genieinthebotttle]

Little Love

This world is hollow

Love adrift

Kindness swallowed.

Hardly catching a drop,

But pretend

To own the ocean!

It's all mechanical

dry around,

The air is making

Us drown.

"Fake"—that word

Echoes in my mind

We are trapped

In this social design.

The sense of empathy

Is airy

Minds are full but

Sympathy is weary.

The oceans of meanness,

Taking humans as objects,

Wearing marks,

Hiding pain as if

We are rejects.

Dolls—turned to Barbies,

Writing—now it's typing,

We fake smiles,

Sharing heart is seen as lies.

Where has all the love gone?

Where are the humans

Who once taught us

That acceptance isn't wrong?

My soul feels heavy

As if someone has left

Mountains of gravity.

Now it's all cold and ice

I don't even remember

If I was ever wise.

So I am keeping this little love alive,

If the world gets tough

So will I.

Warmth in my heart

Will stay as it is,

No iciness can freeze

The walls of its hive.

🪶 génie

Ps: This is poem 3 from my book I, after Me.

[genieinthebotttle]

Prague(Praha)

Dear Prague,

The day I met you,

It felt like I knew you

from a crack in time,

as if the patterns of my fingerprints

are still engraved on those stony alleys, whispering dusky rhymes.

As if the echo of my voice

is still stamped on the winds that blow once in a while,

as if the streets call my name, wrapped in forgotten whispers.

And this feeling of belonging

still flows in me like an icy river.

As if this winter sun

is taking away the coldness of my heart,

as if the dampness around me

is saving my soul from pointed dart.

I have felt my ghost

wandering on these old bridges,

as if it has come home

after being lost for ages.

I have felt deja vu

passing through random streets,

as if my lungs remember my fragrance with every beat.

Some faces are not strangers,

some walls are not just bricks but reminders,

they are home to my soul,

a heart made whole

a piece to complete

the puzzle lost for ages.

waiting in forgotten pages.

Even Vltava holds my reflection,

When I try to pass by,

it shows me directions.

Tell me this is madness, if you must,

for it feels far too tender to be false

Yet I want to be reasonable.

I never felt like I left you,

you stayed with me

as I stayed with you.

The moment I stepped foot again,

It felt like a book back in its rightful place.

🪶 génie

[genieinthebotttle]

Sometimes, My Pen

Sometimes,

my pen doesn’t just write,

it cries—

muffled, low-pitched sighs,

heavy with hurt,

like air mixed with dirt

after a hurricanic night.

Morning feels like a fight

to make it breathable again,

so you don’t choke on your own pain.

Sometimes,

my pen uses my blood

to ink battles wrapped in hoods,

leaving behind miles of ruins—

dead earth waiting to renew.

A soul starved of warmth,

nights frozen in time like a curse,

only love holds the verse

that can revive.

Sometimes,

my pen rolls my memories

like an old projector,

it makes me smile—

I hear my laughter,

loud and clear,

until it dissolves into fear.

Sometimes,

my pen writes me

smiling at a distant scene,

still alive in memory,

though I’ve crossed it like a dream.

Sometimes,

my pen writes me

lost in a monologue,

words pile up

when my voice is clogged.

Sometimes,

my pen writes of spring

inside my heart,

though I barely feel it—

still buried beneath the

labyrinth of the frozen heart.

Sometimes, My pen writes...........

🪶génie

[genieinthebotttle]

Dream catcher

Beads and feathers,

woven together,

a name so fancy,

like a rainbow dancing.

It catches something,

maybe, vanishes humming,

guardian against the bad ones,

filtering resilience from the sun.

We call it a dream catcher,

the one with webs of thread

a perfect matcher,

believed to seize nightmares,

or the ones we see

with eyes so square,

transforming them into morning light,

spreading across the nothingness of twilight.

I have a few around my place,

a circle of life, a silent prayer.

I love the one on my balcony the most,

maybe ’cause it’s woven

with celestial dust of ghosts.

🪶 génie

[genieinthebotttle]

Mothers

Mothers are blurry,

yet weary visions of their dearies.

Still worrying about

every curve on their faces—

upward, downward,

or the ones they hide under braces.

Life is a cycle of growing,

young and old,

silver from gold.

Let go, still keep a tight hold.

Never fit into just one mould,

sometimes going a little off-road.

Scary mostly, rarely bold,

never listen to what is told—

that’s how we learn to roll.

With age,

distance grows.

Bridges turn to gaps,

emotions turn to tape

we play to them on repeat.

It feels to them like heat,

burning without peat, without a beat—

as if old souls have lost their feet,

as if love is lost,

as if they are outcasts.

That’s where it all sinks—

a little wink, and lots of sync.

Not easy, somewhat breezy,

very hazy, but just my Daisy.

🪶 génie

[genieinthebotttle]

Under a Sleeping Sun: A Quiet Thank You❣️

Sleeping Sun ( poetry by me!) I never had an easy life,but God has always been with me,like a quiet shadow.Smiling with me in my highs,pulling me out when I was low.What more does one really ask for?Hope and trust became my core.He stayed—my anchor, my oar,my pole star,showing the waywhile I learned how to floatthrough these moving subways of life.So yes, a second book.I don’t know how it…

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[genieinthebotttle]

To the Man I love,

You are

the smile

my heart desires all the while,

the silent prayer

my lips could never forget or dare.

A warm heart

that knows my every part,

even the muted chambers

lost between old numbers.

One warm hug,

and my heart lifts like a drug.

A kiss of appreciation

is my sweetest validation.

Holding hands

blooms the flowers of my lands.

I become an instrument

of rhythm and rhyme;

my soul feels divine

when our hearts align.

You are my peace,

my person,

my poetry.

🪶 génie

[genieinthebotttle]

Chained, Yet free

What part of your routine do you always try to skip if you can? Decipline of being! To be honest, I’ve always been a routine person. There’s something grounding about knowing what my day will look like — when I’ll eat, write, read, or work out. My routine isn’t about control; it’s about balance. It gives my day rhythm and my mind a quiet kind of peace.I rarely skip anything that’s part of it.…

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[genieinthebotttle]

Silence

When we choose Silence,

we choose to kill —

our bruised yet beating heart,

an ocean of tears without a sail,

hurricanes of thought,

the tools that carve us into art,

memories that crown the charts,

the rituals that pierce like darts.

When we choose Silence,

we choose to kill —

our soul,

our scent,

our desires,

our fires,

in fact,

our entire attire.

But what it looks like —

our arrogance,

our defiance,

our lack of elegance,

our lack of resonance,

just our resilience,

the distance of our own making.

Mostly unseen is

our quiet cognizance.

🪶 génie