Tag: bleak

I hate that I love myself

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I hate that I love myself
Even when I can’t.
At me the looking glass gapes
With a shadow as lifeless
As the idol’s eyes in the temple
Looking straight beyond me
When I once used to pray

I hate that I look at the glass
Harder and harder
Trying to imagine myself into
An aesthetic self
A wise woman
A smiling soul
Bubbling with joy
With a contagious smile

I hate that I make myself believe
I need not be anyone else
My reflection is flawed but never me
Only the glass could be purer
Oh I couldn’t be surer

But I hate that I don’t love myself
As soon as my coerced conception
Breaks into pieces
The illusion shattering into shards of glass
Piercing me everywhere
And I’m back again

Stranded in the dark alley
Sitting with my knees bent
Drenching in the never ending rain.

When lockdown ends

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When lockdown ends
The flowers that have grown on my bedcover
Will crawl back into their still shapes
The grey floor that has stretched into miles
Will squeeze back into the 10×10 room
The hours that have become endless
Will trap themselves inside the watch
When lockdown ends
I’ll come out of a Dali painting

And I’ll ask (perhaps in vain)
Am I still the same?
My mind tends to forget the worst
She keeps me away from my own ghosts
When lockdown ends
Will it make sense, if I find
That in the corners of my mind
Greyish blue patches of memory have disappeared
Forgetfulness spreading like fungus on old bread
Where did the time go?
Where did I?
Where am I?

I might go round in circles
When the lockdown ends
Will I be able to make amends
To those who I might have lost
Might have crossed
Out from my life
When I perhaps dissolved in my endless room
It is the season of doom, after all.

When lockdown ends
I wish for remembrance.

There’s nothing new under the sun

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There’s nothing new under the sun
There’s nothing new about my pain, longing, love
Nor in my desire to be unique.
There’s nothing new in my poem,
When I say I’ve been blue to have missed you
Red to have kissed you
Black to have forgotten you and myself
I’m only rewording what I’ve said
Maybe a hundred years ago,
Even a thousand, who knows?
The gnawing hunger in my mind
To compose the poem to end all poems
To create it all and consume it all-
Is a spectacular piece of comic nonsense
I laugh, louder and louder till my lungs bitterly burst
And I’m finally empty again-
A quill with no ink
A blank word file
A waste of time.

Nobody told me how

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Nobody told me how to look up
From the road filled with grey, Stretching and stretching into eternity
And look into the world
Into
People.
Sheer crowds of them
Moving in a steady fast pace

I lock my eyes with a man and my heart leaps
Not in joy,
There are no butterflies in my stomach
No love in my heart
My heart leaps like I’d like to leap into an abyss.
The glance of the man
Lasts only for a fraction of a second
He looks away
And I start looking at myself
What did he see?
That fraction of a second costs me a lifetime
Of mapping my body, my gestures, my posture
Measuring what I am and what I should be
Measuring to fit in
But sticking out like a sore thumb.

Nobody told me how to look straight
Into the mirror
And not want to be someone else.
I resist the urge to shatter it into pieces
The glass is spotless and devoid of cracks
I am not
No one is.

I lock my eyes with myself
I travel back in time to all the promises I had made
Pointing fingers at the mirror
Pep-talk for the self.
The mirror stays at the same place
Neither have I gone any further
Only the years have gone by.
The one standing on the other side calls me a liar and a cheat
I admit defeat
And put out the lights.

Nobody told me how to look down
Into the screen
And not compare myself to every standard set.
Scrolling up and down
Sighs of despair and unfulfillment
Oh the disparity.

I lock my eyes with the girl on the screen
With eyes as blue as the times when I’m feeling down
Figure as enchanting as non-existence is to me
Skin as smooth as the paper I accidentally cut my fingertip with
Smile as bright as sun on a scorching summer day.
Even while I fight the Euro-centric bias
Perpetuated in our minds
I wonder why some get to be so perfect
And more importantly,
Why some get to decide what’s perfect.

Nobody told me how to look inside
Get out of my head
And get over myself.

Small talk

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“How was your day?”
.
.
In the mornings
When my mother starts her day in the kitchen
And my father looks for the newspaper
All I want is an excuse.

An excuse to pause the day, even before it has begun.

“Halt!” I say to Mr.Time.
Mr.Time wears a suit and a tie
With glasses as thick as icecubes
Perched on his rigid nose.
He slaps me hard and shouts like a war general
“Yes,Sir!”
I come back to my senses.

The day goes on and on and on
Like a thriller movie in slow motion,
Devoid of background music.
Deja vu
Every moment a facsimile of some other one.

There’s a cadence to monotony
If you have the ear for it.
Sometimes I do, don’t you too?

Before long, I get lost
In other worlds freshly manufactured
Where facts don’t matter,
Mr.Time is banned,
And I am free.

But I’m no God, no Creator Almighty
My thinly framed bubbles of thoughts
Fade away like half-remembered memories
Oh so quickly
Poof! And I’m back again.
Nothing makes sense yet, but at least
I’m back to my senses.

Ringing voices vibrate in my ears
Boys grinning with their mouths wide open
Girls leaning onto each other
Tearing up into giggles.
The dusky sky and the dazzling streetlights
Coexist with different ideals of beauty
I keep my eyes open
For every sight.

We call it a day.
I make my peace with Mr.Time
He smiles at me like a benevolent captor
I smile back.
.
.
“My day was great, how was yours?”

Musings and mood swings

ahonarc

A sleepless night.
Shiny, shy sparkles (let’s call them stars) hide behind the raging smog,
A sky as grey as the railway platform with nowhere to go but stare at the ever-running trains
My city’s clarity matches my mind’s.

“Would he/she/they really care if I were gone?”
Blink once, twice, thrice
Over and over again
I make my eyelids droopy with repititive restlessness
But can’t get rid of the pain.

My body refuses to shut the windows to my soul, it seems
My heavy eyes are wide open
To let in all my doubts-
They’re guests after all (or maybe they are the residents)
And my mind is many things
But not an impolite host.

I try to conjure up some tears,
Scanning my memories-
Strange places,
Familiar hands in strange places,
Strange coldness in familiar souls.
Alas
Sorrow is too pure an emotion.
Disappointment suits a cynic better
And I am (often) sure I am one.

Dry eyes, a dry soul, a dry sense of humour
I’m not out of place in my own self, at least.
That’s a relief.
Speaking of relief, I finally realise what I really want to ask

“Would I care if I were gone?”

“Would I be… relieved?”

Maybe some other time,
Some other day,
I will ask a complete stranger
“How did you know I’m broken?”
And nod along with empty eyes to whatever he thinks the reason is;
Or maybe I’ll read a bestselling self-help book
Absorb it for a day
And decide not to be broken;

Or maybe I will go back to bleak attempts at sub-par poetry
Maybe you will read it too
And the desire to die (or the indifference to death, life and everything in between)
Will be reduced to a mere poetic theme
Just like love, war and other things.