Poetry

I said, She said- Poem

She said I’m all good,
Meant Challenge my lie.
She said Of course not!
Meant Isn’t it obvious?
She said I got this,
Meant For the love of God, help me!
She said I’d like to be alone,
Meant Stay with me every second.
She said You’ve tons of friends,
Meant Screw them and save me!
She said You are my everything,
Meant I depend on you for all but nothing.
She said You’re an awesome success,
Meant I’m awfully jealous.
She said You’re the best at everything!
Meant Remind me I am good enough.
She said You give no shits about me,
Meant Reassure me, please?
She said You can’t do this and that,
Meant You can but don’t you dare!
She said A good person won’t this and that,
Meant Your free will will cost you.
She said, she said, she said- until
I said one day:
I said I’m done here,
Meant I’m done here.

 

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Poetry

SONDER- Slam poetry

      Slam Poetry    

Sonder
is to realise
That everyone you recognize
Has lived a tale
You’ll never fully unveil :
A tale with Fisherman knots and an intricate plot,
A tale that can’t be explained or taught.

This is just as true for you and me
As for the stranger on the street.
We are walking stories, talking experience,
We hide siren alarms and syringes
up our sleeve
and paint our scars with Mascara
In the tales we weave.
Torn. Worn. Forlorn.
Yet we never cease to believe.
So when whispers of envy tickle my ears
I laugh at the fickle truth.

Sonder
A whisper says: She’s so together
Together?
I’ve been broken in ways you can’t imagine
Like a fish carved apart into gill and fin.

Sonder
A whisper says: She’s brave
Yes I’ve braved the monsters
Not those under the bed, but the ones in my head.
Not those that hide behind curtains,
but those that crawl into hearts.

Sonder
A whisper says: she’s so free
Free, indeed, from the bonds I’ve been tied to,
From the many ways I’ve been lied to,
When the clock ticks bedtime only when validation strikes,
When thoughtless words metamorphosize into sharpened spikes.

Sonder
A whisper says: She’s complete
Depleted I was once,
Though now replete.
Maimed much, aimed at,
On the end of a tight death grip
Of an invisible White Walker’s fingertip.

I wiped off the grease,
Picked up piece after piece,
I’d signed no lease with life,
It was my job
to find peace with strife.

So I bundled up the loss and guilt,
Tossed them into my patchwork quilt.
When I embraced the monsters at night
I realised they stopped putting up a fight.

Carefree today came with money,
To land at the hills, I crossed pits many.

Yet, if you take a very close look,
You can read some pages of my book.

See the war’s blood red in the blush of my cheeks,
The turns of fate in my twisted green veins,
Find the whiplashes on the creases of my palm,
And you’ll uncover the story behind this picture of calm.

That’s why
When I see
A sea of people
Who always seem
complete and replete,
fair and free,
I’m reminded that they’re
stories within stories.

And I whisper to myself
Sonder.

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Poetry

True sounding lie- Poem

running man

 

Running breathlessly,

The finish line evasive as ever.

Alone in the hunt –

Inspired creation abandoned,

Bidden goodbye a decade ago.

Chased by dreary shadows

Of a fluid ideal,

Encased by ghosts of

an undefinable exemplar

that haunt me in my slumber :

Madness is my pursuit

that survives through

mythical tales –

tales of Paragon, of perfection.

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Life lessons, Myriad Musings

Wisecrack in the cheese

“Did you scrape your knee in your descent from heaven ?” and its other cringeworthy variations prove to be one of the cheesiest pick up lines that has outlived generations. Once we’re done with the eye rolling, let’s take a closer look and ask ourselves, “Why can’t we live up to be the angels that the chat up line claims us to be ?”

We certainly could, in the glory days of childhood. Remember the happy abandon with which we flew kites in the terrace and built our own camp fires ?  There was also the unshakeable faith in our artistry, fashioning dolls out of clay and boats out of paper. It was a simpler time when we wore our hearts on our sleeves and stayed true to the things that spoke to us. Amidst growing up and its calculative self-centredness, the angel within us has succumbed to slumber and we leave her drowsy and blindfolded, lest she started asking uncomfortable questions.

There’s a huge irony though. Look at who you root for. We put on our best cheerleader suit for characters in virtual and actual reality, hailing as heroes those who chase outside only that which warms their insides : representatives of the ‘heavenly.’ So why don’t we take a step and join the club ? Surviving on exhibitionism and social credentials- read someone else’s reality– has become a cold cliche. True culture is to do things that make you look forward to tomorrow so much so that approval and survival are goals of the past.

The upgraded search is a hunt for the ‘spirited’ and the ‘soulful.’ Search hard and search deep within, and when you do find it, pass it on. Be vocal about the elation in being a hero, the confidence in embodying all that you believe in and the beauty of a life tailored for yourself, mush like the wondrous doll house you personalised with the undeniable power of a child. Realise that the angel is much better off when she’s wide awake, steering your way from her golden chariot, and so are YOU.

The next time someone hints that you’re angelic, do me a favour and believe them. Own it and your reality is all yours to own !

WordPress daily prompt : Descend

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