Is There an Answer to the Maybe?

How do you distinguish,
Between what you crave and what you desire?
How do you differentiate
Between a want and a need?
Do the primal needs,
Surpass self-constructed ones?
Or do necessities of survival,
Lag behind our own fabricated idealisms?
And if not us,
Who can make this distinction?
Will it be the preachers of truth,
Whose only merits are encounters with realities?
Will it be leaders of the world,
Who take pride in the enormity of their epiphanies?
Will it be teachers,
Who have taught us everything and thus would teach this also?
Or will it be parents,
Present or not, but still attempting to teach us all the ways of the world?
Whoever it may be,
It certainly cannot be me.
For to look at my heart and mind in a varied way,
Is not something doing myself I see.
But maybe this is how it is supposed to be
Maybe I shouldn’t know everything there is to know,
Maybe the heart, mind and body are in discord on purpose
And maybe, maybe to search for concord is not on their mind after all.

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Nothing As An Unsinkable Ship

Life is marked by change, both turbulent and placid, but change nonetheless. But this change may not always be associated with something that pleases the one who undergoes it, rather, it may leave behind a void of loss that can be incredibly painful to bear. However, even in the face of such change that could constitute loss and suffering, there is a silver lining. The way of the world teaches one to learn to live with this loss and ultimately grow. This poem is an attempt to encapsulate these thoughts, in rhythm.

How strange is it

That the promises meant to be kept forever

Are those that are broken most often

And all that is left are remnants of its pieces, scattered as piercing shards.

The strongest ropes tear

The unsinkable ships sink

The healthiest hearts fail 

And the brightest stars lose their lustre.

It dawns upon us that every beginning,

Has its end determined before its life

And though the inevitability of it is universally acknowledged,

Yet the preceding void leaves us crushed and distraught.

Every story may not have a prologue that gives it an epilogue,

It may just have chapter one and chapter end

It may not stretch beyond its conclusion to a happy ending,

But that ache of a fairytale ending can still be overcome.

To bear this weight is the only remedy

To accept the tearing rope and the sinking ship,

To accept the anatomical surrender and losing shine,

Is the only way to piece the piercing shards together.

Is There Anything Different?

The agony of your comfort

The restlessness of your tranquillity

The apathy of your passion

The longing of your contentment.

Why, why is your existence so oxymoronic?

Ironic isn’t it? Since you call yourself the clearest headed of all

Boast your power, which regrettably exists, oh how tragic.

Oh heart, which depth of yours do you want me to crawl?

Which slumber of mine do you want to wake me from?

Which meander of mine do you want me to navigate through?

Which ship do you want me to build to escape the storm?

And are these all the things there are to be faced or even they seem few?

In front of your might and glory, I feel foolish to even ask.

The waves you drown me in that you call feelings

Rip away the only defence i have against the world, my only mask

And leave me bare to face my truth, alone and stripped to carry-out my healing.

Take a step back heart,

Put a rest to your ways 

Let you not always a conflict start

Let you not make me lose myself in your maze.

But as I say this, the irony now hits me

As I discover that this time I am the oxymoron

For I can not deny that your maze, I want to see,

For I cannot turn away from the things, to stay away from those I had sworn.

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The Power of Words

Sitting idle is a powerful state of being, it can be incredibly insightful, humbling, tormenting, or simply numbing. But one thing in common in every scenario that plays in this vegetative state that one experiences, is a vivid replay of the things one did, emotions one felt, and without fail, the words that were spoken, or worse, left unspoken.
The last of them all is the most impactful to any person. It’s so fascinating how impressionable random arrangements of the same handful of letters can leave on individuals and their minds. To ponder upon the things one said in agony, hysteria, elation, frustration, hate or love; or on the flip side, remained of covert nature in an encounter- is a magnificent realisation. And as the the string of these thoughts is added to with pearls of new ‘what ifs’, regrets, paraphrases, revisits and a plethora of others, a common idea is birthed in the form of the infant christened “power of words.”
This child is immature at first, unaware of the meaning of its name or what it signifies. Its actions correspond to this state of oblivion, and for years it fails to live up to its name. Then comes the stage when it becomes a toddler, slightly aware but a troublemaker and rule breaker regardless. And finally, it comes to age when the world does not seem so colourful, vivid and harmless as before. Rather, the unpleasant contours of hate, deception, and insincerity make themselves conspicuous. These contours are a jarring change and a revolting sight, but it doesn’t take long for them to adapt to these and understand the purpose of their existence in the world that they were born in. And right from this eureka moment, until the very end, this child never forgets its name. Its name, and its significance, it never forgets.

More

Beautiful, she was

Oh, so beautiful!

“Like the stars bedazzling the sky in fantasized patterns?

Like the fresh roses or sweet words of a lover?

Like the little mist on the tips of the blades of meadows?

Was she as beautiful?”

No, no.

She is beauty, but not the one you find in plain sight

Not the one the mundane world can identify

Not the one the mundane person can appreciate,

No.

She’s the kind of beautiful that poets write verses about.

The kind of beautiful artists paint as their muse

The kind of beautiful with her wild eyes ready for adventure

The one where she snorts in her laugh, in all its crooked glory

The one in which her cheeks go red and her nose scrunches in the bitter cold

The one that can cut through the glass but is as delicate as glass itself,

That’s the kind of beautiful she is.

She’s the motive and the murderer

The scythe and the ichor

The dreaded yet the adored.

But yes, she is a also constellation.

A constellation of droplets in a summer storm

Defiant, free, daring but beautiful nonetheless

Leaving the fighting ships baffled

For they are also in awe of her magnificence

Yet again in crippling fear of her power,

That’s the kind of beautiful she is.

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As Summer Dawns

I had never been much of a poet
Neither could I call myself a writer 
To weave webs of metaphors, 
And paint canvases of symbols,
It happened never.
To arrange my thoughts in the same handful of alphabets
To articulate my feelings with a pen and paper 
And to produce words that make one feel something
It was a road far too long to tread upon for me. 
But that wasn’t all
The technicalities of it could still be cured
And this void would have still been small
If a muse was my rope out.
But oh! The dull winter mornings.
The recurring grays and blacks and whites 
The piercing pain of chilly days
And the sights of a mourning nature;
Cut my rope in half.
And then it was time to wait,
But if this wait was fruitful or not, no one could tell.
And as I waited,
The stars they came out of their abode, 
And went back to them again 
And the sun it travelled the world and back 
And the moon was born and gone and born once again
And finally, my rope pulled me out.
The dull mornings were now long gone
The world a palette of all and every color I could conjure
The gentle breeze cooling down all, young or old
And the thriving plants and trees and flowers and streams,
My dear summer, how you make me a poet and writer all in one.
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Easy, But is it Really?

As I grew up, it dawned upon me how easy it was.

It’s something that I could have never imagined,

Something that was beyond me and my mundane mind,

Beyond my heart that bled ignorance in the face of this complexity.

It is the truth, however,

A truth that snapped me out of my naïve reveries,

Crashing down the utopia that I had envisioned for myself,

That woke me up from my dreams that were oh so pleasant.

Perhaps that is why people warn you,

It is better to brace yourself for this jolt,

Seeming impossible at first to ever occur,

But catching you off-guard soon after.

It is hard to accept the flood,

The crashing waves disguised as human emotions,

The devastation and havoc they subject you to,

And the after-effects of it that affect you forever.

But this realization is not all bad after all,

What harm is it to know the ways of the world?

It is good, actually, to be washed away with the current,

And return to the shore as the conqueror of the seas.

As I grew up, it dawned upon me how easy it was.

How easy it was to trust the wrong people,

To break your walls and struggle to build them after,

To conceal streams of tears with an insincere smile.

But as I grew up, it also dawned upon me how easy it was.

How easy it was also to break trust,

To make mistakes, you don’t know how to mend,

To repent actions, you don’t know how to undo,

To be guilty of words, you don’t know how to take back.

So, what is hard after all, if both sides of the coin are not?

It is a question the answer to which is known by each person,

A piece of knowledge all humans are born with,

A truth that is universally known, but seldom acknowledged.

But as I grow up,

I learn to change this definition of easy,

Change the mockery of humanity that it entails,

Try to save a bruised conscience along with a billion others.

Flammable

Light the matchstick
Let it burn as you hold it
Let the flame travel downwards
Just let it go a little longer.

Feel the fire burn your fingertips
And the heat melt your skin
Let the pain consume every part
As the fire devours you.

The yellow and orange
Turns you brown and grey
The majesty of the flame
Reduces you to ash and decay.

But as the fire picks its pace
As bones and muscles slowly disintegrate
The fire reaches your ego
Buried deep within.

You expect it to burn it slow
Taking its merry time
Killing and destroying you eventually
Leaving no trace behind.

But as soon as it reaches the ego
It’s like gasoline has been poured
The fire rages suddenly
Spreading like it never did before.

You feel your walls falling
The toxicity of your own self crumbling
Your superiority complex shattering
And your insensitivity vanishing.

As every inch of your ego is burnt
You come back to your senses
Your eyes see clearer
Realising it wasn’t you, but your ego which was highly flammable.

Now you rush to save yourself
Valuing the new you, by fire resurrected
And as you put out the fire
You think; to extinguish something, it needs to burn first.

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If I Told You

If I tell you to close your eyes
If I tell you to stop yourself from listening
If I tell you to believe the sweet lies 
If I tell you it’s no use speaking, 
Would you listen?
 
If I tell you to let go 
If I tell you to sing loud 
If I tell you to lie low 
If I tell you to stand out in the crowd, 
Would you trust me? 

If I tell you to hold my hand 
and tell you to tread together on any path 
If I tell you that beyond the bend there is no land 
and tell you hence the road is just a blood bath, 
Would you come? 

I know you won’t answer right away 
maybe you will, but it’ll be a yes of humor devoid of sincerity,
It will make me doubt if forever you’d stay 
but I know you will, yet it’ll hold true only if the journey will be one of comfort and familiarity. 
So yes; you would listen, trust and come with me, 
maybe along the way our hearts grow even fonder. 
But alas! I know this is only possible in theory 
and we’re not meant to go together into the unknown yonder.


Little Pieces of a Bigger Puzzle

People Putting The Pieces Together Concept . Large Group Of People In The  Shape Of Two Puzzle Pieces On A White Background. Stock Photo, Picture And  Royalty Free Image. Image 34937954.
a drop of water in the sea
a grain of sand on the beach
a blade of grass in the meadow 
you and me, in this world.

a strand of hair in a head of luscious curls
a thread of fabric from a t-shirt 
a pinch of salt in the ocean
you and me, in this world.

a note of music in a song 
a petal of a flower in the park
a second in a day of dozens of hours
you and me, in this world.

we are all incomplete
complete, yet lacking in a sense so oblique 
one is nothing without the other, 
and all together they are everything.

piece by piece the universe is made
with everything being a part of something bigger 
like pieces of a puzzle, these gently fit,
and hence form the bigger picture.

these small things are made for greatness 
after all, without one right brick, the highest castles may collapse
and everyone’s purpose of existence is bigger than they’ll ever know,
it is us, these pieces who, little by little, make the greatest puzzles.