who said poetry
had to drown in metaphors
for it to be good
’cause i don’t relate
to them green pastures
but I can cry
when she puts on her mother’s lipstick
and i know sometimes a wilted flower
can become your heart
but sometimes your heart raw
can become mine.
I am not too complex
not too good either
explains why I read
about honey at times
and there are others I know not
who might have already written
what i am yet to feel.
easy reads, they call ’em
easy, like me, like mine.
your dissent is not disrespect, I respect
poetry is personal.
There you go
two words define you
as easily as the two syllables in your name
after you are gone
these words will move on
to find someone sane
all you will leave behind
a faint whisper of your misery,
few ashes in an urn, confined.
Let me say this before you purists take offence, this ain’t poetry. Have not categorized it (or anything else on this page) as such. This is what I want it to be, this is what you understand it to be.
As always, thank you for reading.
A little drop
of many little drops
streaked red in my pain
and I see blue all around.
Now I’m begging you
please don’t let me shatter
I started reading again.
This wasn’t premeditated. Yesterday morning I woke up early and I plucked a book off of my very dusty bookshelf. A green cover, bold font, stack of pillows and a glass of lemonade was all it took.
And I finished it in the morning itself.
It had been a year since I had read a book but it felt like a decade. So was it a joyous reunion? Did my fingers rejoice at the feel of those seemingly never ending pages? Did my eyes glisten as I read those tiny words crammed into a page? I think I need glasses.
Anyway, it was a confusing, mixed state of mind that I ended the book in, incidentally which had nothing to do with its contents.
After years of being an introvert bookworm, I had begun preferring my laptop to reading. And I actually uttered the following words: I’d rather watch the movie than read the book. Sacrilegious, I know!
I literally stuck to my precious laptop like a leech. I lost myself in hours of movies and TV series.
I think it was because I forgot how to imagine, to build a world inside my head.
Or I just became impatient.
Here’s hoping this sticks.
To the man in the pink slip in the metro,
You were wearing a pink slip, jeans, rouge and a matching pink lipstick. You were merrily singing along to songs with your earphones plugged in.
“Next station is noida city centre”
As you moved towards the doors, the horde of people (mostly consisting of young men) moved to one side giving you a wide berth. And you kept singing along. They laughed at you, and conspicuously started talking amongst themselves. You just exited the doors and made your way to the exit gates. As you were doing that, two old couples expressed their anger at your attire.
I also saw you two weeks ago, in the same metro. I was making my way to the coach nearest to the stairs. You were in that coach, arguing. Or defending yourself, I later realized. You were wearing a shirt which had an open back. (This is relevant because I only heard snippets of what followed.) A man raised an issue with it. And this time you replied. It came down to abuses flung your way. Horrible words spoken by callous morons.
But they aren’t to blame, no, not entirely. You were vigorous in your defense, sir. But you were alone and I was a bystander. I am sorry.
You were cornered. You have the right to express yourself. But you also have the right to my support. It’s not asked of me by the law but by the nature of sheer humanity.
I am sorry. I am so sorry.
I was silent and I am responsible too to an extent.
You don’t deserve this. No one does. I am happy that you stood up for yourself, a feat that I haven’t accomplished. I prefer to ignore.
You, on the other hand, inspire.
I hope there isn’t a next time but we live in a country that outlaws the very expression of your existence so there probably will be.
I am sorry.
Let’s face it, I am not a writer. So stating that I have writer’s block would be blasphemous.
My refusal to categorize myself as a writer is not a sign of my already diminishing self esteem. It’s just a conscious decision to distance myself from those who are passionate about the art. Since I have such respect for those who do (write) it would be sacrilegious, if I compare these previous penned “thoughts” with their amazing pieces. Take this as a weird love letter to them, if you will.
Books have been my world. And the funny thing is that the previous statement is literal, no, not metaphorical (for all the Ted Mosbys out there) but literally books have been my world. I loved being lost. It was so thrilling even if the book was a sappy romantic princess whiny thingamajig; engrossing even if it was Ayn Rand’s larger than my head novel on being a true rebel and what not or Harry Potter, because who doesn’t love Harry Potter- “always” man, that line kills me-. Was it just a cheap escape (the expensive ones being drugs)? Or I just wanted to fit in? How could I have when the rest of the teen populace was busy discussing what happened on the previous day’s episode of Balika Vadhu (on the morning of the exam, no less). Although it would be wrong of me to generalize just because of a (maybe) minority (like “hardcore feminists” do with the male population, but that’s a debate for some other time). I just didn’t meet the right people.
Regardless, I was happy.
Books were good to me. They helped me create a perspective that was broad and accepting for the most part. It was, well, nice to live with stories that had no end. I could take the last book in the series anywhere. Maybe Potter became the Minister of Magic, or died (or worse expelled-sorry, couldn’t resist-). Just the whole aspect of it being infinite and conclusive thereby defying the concept of an oxymoron really, really captured that chubby little kid.
Did I lose my childhood? Would my time have been better spent frolicking in the playground? I don’t think so. Sure, I might have been thinner but then that’s anybody’s guess. I mean, I did eat those barfis by the dozen when I was little ( I am kidding, well, for the most part I am, I promise).
This leads me to now. Because as I am writing this, I have A barfi in my hand. Purely coincidental, I promise, again.
Because I’ve stopped reading.
I don’t feel that ‘need’ to read (that rhymed) anymore. And it pisses me off sometimes. I have dozens of books lying around. Waiting to be opened. None of them beckons. And I am lost once again but this, this is a different kind of lost. The kind that leaves me with nothing to say and nothing to think about.
let me wallow
in my misery
let me dive
let me die
i’ll be better off
let me be happy
once and for all.
Talk me off a ledge
you’ve put me on
Let me breathe
free from you
You are a struggle
and I want to win
So I keep trying
until I give up
I could be happy
but are you?
You will always
exist in my shadow
Can’t let you go
do I even want to?
Now her gods lie abandoned
on lined shelves
Instead of hastily whispered prayers
They aren’t wrong,
but neither is she
maybe in them
or in her
Matchboxes remain unused
As I write this, I’m blinded by the steady stream of tears escaping from my eyes and falling unceremoniously onto my bed sheet. The fact that I have been incapable of discovering the reason for their initiation astounds me.
Gingerly, I pick up my phone, do what every female on this planet does whilst in this situation and call a friend. By doing so I succumb to a trait tauntingly attributed to females and since I am not usually for all this sappy emotional crap, this act delivers the second surprise of the night.
Disconnected, no, not the call but I feel so. The phone, on the other hand keeps ringing.