The Sea (poem)

At the edge of the sea was everything seems so still.

Pull your fingers away from the water,

You'll disrupt the calm.

It looks so calm.

I wonder what's underneath

Are there several thousand kinds of creatures

Who'd rush to kill,

Or run away to hide?

Will I find an oyster,

Or a ragged old ruin of a ship?

How old are your scars?

I want to dive and drink in these waters

Submerged like a yellow submarine,

Swallow all the pretty shells and the swordfish

And all the things that sit still at the bottom.

I will swallow it all.

And wait till it floods me ,

And then leaves me thirsty.

And wait till it floods me ,

And then leaves me dry.

Why wouldn't you leave me dry?

I see a bizarre water monster

That will take my soul.

It's so far away,

Hovering just below the watery surface.

Preparing.

Steadying its move

To attack,

To drag me with it underneath.

Please take me underneath .

And then, and only then, tear me apart.

Because some things are indeed inevitable,

And even though my lungs will fill with water and no one would hear me,

And all there would be to hear would be your silence,

Your unresponsiveness.

And my silent screams, battling.

And then my body floating of its own accord.

But I'll know that you know that I found out.

I found out about you.

First September. (poem)

And it's raining outside.
7:20 am and I've been awake the night before.
I'm locked in my room;
Curtains drawn.
I hear the thunder,
The sound of rain falling on the grass, the asphalt, the roof above me.
I could dissolve in it right now.
The rain murmurs now,
It tells me I don't belong here.
I never did.
The state of my room like the shadowy crime scene,
Little light through the curtains makes it appear haunted.
Everything bathed in a mixture of shadow and slight light.
Breathing becomes conscious as I inhale the air that still reeks of him.
No, my dear, he still hasn't left.
Will he ever?

A bird sings.
I am much too disconnected with nature to know which bird it is.
It sounds indifferent.
It sounds oblivious to the world's unhappiness and contentment.
Oh, the thunder returns! It doesn't hush them.
The birds sound indifferent still.
Don't tell me, little bird, that I project myself onto you.
I do not.
I have my own worries.

The thunder sounds like the passion that is almost forgotten,
The passion that flowed through me so easily.
So easily.
Oh! But it burned me good.
I am much too afraid to touch it now.
It's only a fire that looks virtuous from afar.
It is not my territory anymore.
I do not belong there.
I do not belong there.
But I also do not belong here.
I never did. 

The truth about the truth.

Hiding behind walls is so much easier than facing challenges. We live a life so protected that we miss out on so much that is raw and real. We end up doing to ourselves exactly what we’re protecting ourselves from. We end up hurting ourselves by denying the things our hearts want. Though giving it what it wants would be naive. The question that arises is: do we let others hurt us, or should we be the ones causing ourselves heartaches? The latter is what most of us choose. The latter is what I've chosen. You, being in your own shoes, know exactly what you did and what you’re going to do, and you rationalise the consequences for it. And why can’t be rationalise the hurt someone has caused us? We’re not in their mind. We don’t know just how malicious and cunning they can be. We love  being the victim, don’t we? I will not you claim to know the truth, simply because I do not. I do not know why people go to war or how did Boo Radley know Bob Ewell was trying to kill Scout and Jem (Ref: To Kill A Mockingbird by Harper Lee). Because someone I met quite recently said that truth is just a perception. Truth is what you believe to be true. It is reality, it is fantasy, and it is neither. You will rationalise anything that you want the truth to be. If I believe unicorns exist, then that’s my truth. That is how we live. That’s how we build our realities. But if my perception could be wrong and why should anyone else have to put up with the consequences of my erroneous observations?

It only has to seem right to me for me to believe it, and then for me to convince you of it. Nothing is permanent and truth is no exception. The truth changes as we change. Sometimes it’s bitter, other times it’s not as much bitter, but mostly it’s deciding between whether to drown or stay afloat (it doesn’t matter if you’re telling the truth or hearing the truth).

(I'm trying to make a point here.)

People will be truthful and they will also lie and manipulate. And there is no way of controlling any of it. So stop whatever you’re doing and figure out your truth.

Them, and You.

Deprivation causes crime. Deprivation causes havoc. It causes disasters within you, and without you. How do you live with the demons inside your miserable mind? How do you fight your battles when the whole world seems against you? Your thoughts pull at you, grasp you with humiliation. Your thoughts, they never abandon you. You think you’re unsolicited, unwanted. You’re dejected and flawed. Oh honey, you’re not flawed. The society is. All they want is to make you pretend you’re one of them. They don't even care whether your heart belongs with them or not.  Because all of them, they’re pretending too.

They don’t care if you have big dreams. What are dreams anyway? Fragments of unreal cessation of reality. Who needs that when you've got  a game plan set in stone by the people who don’t know you. And I say that with absolute mock criticism. *winks with finger guns*

And that lot over there with their judgemental ideas and their cunning, disapproving looks, allow me to tell you how they feel as I type these very words. "Oh look at her with her outrageous and her criminal actions to set us astray from the ideals of our ancestors." Add in a haw-haye in there too if you may.

I feel sad and disappointed. What we, collectively as a society, have become is not something I would want to appreciate. The stimulus for this sort of behaviour being a number of things from the crappy Indian television shows to the misinterpretation of our own values through the generations.

We have become a bunch of haves and have-nots. And don't you think we are capable of something more than just that?

And they wish to deprive of your desires, not because they’re wrong but because they've been deprived of their own by people who are just like them. If only you knew how beautiful the inside of your mind is, how uncontaminated your heart is. You’d see then that the world is a better place because you’re here.

John Green — “You say you're not special because the world doesn't know about you, but that's an insult to me. I know about you.”

The Reality Inside Her

How did I get here? The question we all ask ourselves. How did we get here, how did we become who are right now, this moment? And how what we used to be only a year ago feels like a distant past. People change. And she changed. She could’ve told them how she couldn’t imagine her life without them by her side, but all she can feel is a lump in her throat. The feeling that she would only embarrass herself, that they would only laugh it off what she spent weeks thinking about, that what good is it to remind them that your guard is down.

When they misused, twisted, chewed and then threw her words in her face, they didn't know how impeccably disastrous it would be. She’s not insecure anymore, not uncertain. She’s only been hurt. Hurt enough to stop telling people she loves them and what they mean to her. Hurt enough to presume she doesn't matter anymore, even if she did. Hurt enough to start believe her words don’t mean much, if they meant anything at all.  

She thinks that they probably knew. They probably knew that she’s suffering. But do they, really? Is it that easy to throw people off? To make them think so contrary to the reality that only exists inside you? Is it really that easy to forge one’s bearing that even the closest of all fall for it? They did fall for it and it makes her feel a strange kind of sadness. But yet, she laughs it off. 

People around you need reassurance that they’re still wanted, and loved, and that you think them alive in the hours of death. They need to be reminded what they still mean to you or they’d have no reason to not start think otherwise. But when you mean equally to them, when they know you, wouldn’t they know this?

Don’t you know this.