Short Term 12

Like torn lips that hurt your smiles
or a dilapidated lung that aches when you laugh
like a tonsil throat that makes it hard to speak that you feel

Like a pretty thing, just broken

Trying hard to swim across 3 feet
to stay afloat against the weight of her depressing thoughts

Will you stretch your hand towards her
even if it means to mend your ways
or pains your vein
Ain’t it worth the cuts in hers

Will you lie beside her, holding her close
and doing nothing else
for days and weeks, for as long as she takes
Ain’t it worth her sleepless nights and terror struck days

Will you put that much effort
to know her whole
the peculiar thoughts and the hushed ones
to understand
Why she loves mashed potatoes
and hates people that much

Will you love her enough
To be the Mason to your Grace?

Desperation

Healed? Still Wounded.
Ever strived so hard
that hope blinds you

Or tried to shed skins and wear a new one
lost your whole self
into the space of broken promises and love

Ever looked at the brightest star in the night sky
believing she is watching over you too

Been desperate for one answer?

One reason

That you could alter
to just not be at the end
of blurred dreams, fading romance
Sad stories engraved on rocks

If you had, you would know
Desperation is not a person.
It is a phase.

Fragile

Like a rainbow.
Painted in joys and success stories
Yellow and orange
in lessons and failures
Violet and blue
Faded in its dependent existence.

Like butterfly wings
fluttering fast and sometimes slow
paving paths, going places.
Cut and scathed.
Not strong enough
to bear consequences
of its own choices.

Like shade
that makes a mark
when the day stays.
So easy for darkness
to engulf it in its gloom.

Like a strand of rain
grown out of tiny droplets
firmed to stay strong, not sway
Submitting to the slightest wind
time and again.

Like glass
broken and taped
shattered and re-collected
limpid, with concealed scars.

Like her own heart
so fragile
without you.

The Way It Is Meant

I have seen you through those times
when you were fragile like glass
the one that broke too oft.

I have been there in your growing days
when you were weak like a sapling
and it was too easy to stomp you.­­

Through those times
when you soared like cotton balls
and it wasn’t hard to dampen your spirit.

Those days
when you succumbed to gravity
when it was always a downfall

You, the heart that beats
and me the cognitive head
I thought
maybe
this is the way it is meant.

A sudden gush of wind
not a breeze but a storm.
My entire world shatters into rubbles.

I am not ready yet
to collect the broken pieces
and build a new home.

You hold my hand
stay strong for me.
You carve a sand castle
and tell me it is okay to be broken.

I realize

This is the way it is meant.

Me, the sturdy pillar when you need me to be
you the shade when those dark clouds rain on me.

FOMO

FOMO (Fear Of Missing Out) is a term used to define such social anxiety where one is relentlessly bothered about losing a good opportunity, a novel experience or fun social interaction.

Dates struck off one after the other, make a mess in her personal diary’s first page. Making resolutions each New Year and watching them break. She was convinced to give up on herself but was not totally ready yet. She lost self-confidence, and borrowed them from dates; her own birthday, her parent’s birthday, and some numerology that made no actual sense.


She stalked Twitter accounts and Facebook profiles, letting all those happy hash tags, insightful statuses and success pictures inspire her at first and then gnaw her self-belief, little by little to whole. It wasn’t about persons. But about people and happiness, diligence and achievements where all she had to offer life, was a hollow bag that reeked of languor (So she thought).

Little did she realize that her own timeline was a corrosive acid to metal strong beliefs of quite a few, those who stalked her profile as she stalked theirs, who craved for what she had while she thought they had better and more. She forgot they had an untold story like she had hers. She forgot that there is always another side.

“Maybe I can do better as a friend. Maybe I should eliminate cuss words from my vocabulary. I ought to read more books. My vehemently brief attention span needs to be sincerely worked upon. ”

Maybe she should stop harping on. Maybe she should just focus, on being herself, perfectly.

 

 

Finesse

 

“I had my syllabus remaining and you offered to help. I should have been grateful and I was, but, when I couldn’t follow what you explained, I really wasn’t nice to you. That was definitely not how you deserved to be spoken to, Prags. I’m sorry.”
“Exams had really stressed you out. So, you needn’t be sorry at all. It’s Okay.”

“Sumi I’m really sorry. I just. I just, rather he just broke up with me. And. I couldn’t really compose myself enough to talk to anybody. So I dint respond to you though you called me like three times. I thought you’d be mad at me but you don’t seem like it at all. ”
“Oho chill. I understood everything was not all right. So I dint mind it at all. Just take care of yourself!”

I know that it’s navy blue and not black. But if you call its black, it’s okay. I understand you. Even though I do not understand the things you say, and they make no sense to me, I listen because they make sense to you.

I know it’s not the best you can do. It’s not appropriate to just let those tears flow as we sit in the coffee bar; neither is it best to yell at me in a place with just the two of us and 50 other people. But then, I know then that you are not your best anyways.

I know it is not acceptable to utter cusswords. The world will judge you. But this time I won’t. Because the world doesn’t know what you are going through, I do.

There are people with great finesse and when we eat lunches like the way we used to, sharing our favorite dishes, and being happy just by each other’s company, I’ll tell you, you can do better. But now, I’ll leave my pretty stilettoes and fit into your moccasins. And stay there even though it hurts, because I know it hurts you more.

 

Cotton Balls


A wanderlust
that cares not for brick walls.
Light body and free.

Honest and true
no secrets, no false syllables.
The color white.

On crestfallen days
nothings that elicit laughter.
Tickles of a fleecy touch.

Constraints and distances
Happiness at the rare sight.
It’s not winter every season.

She collects your words
inhales your breath.

Love blooms
love grows

and even before she realizes
you will be long gone
till another year.

She’ll love you like that little child
in her own pristine ways

Dancing to your heart-beats
stowing seeds of memories
till its winter again.

First Rain

Football has a whole new meaning
and Maggi stalls have their best-sale-days.

The air is imbued with love
as much as it is with moisture.

The divide of AC and non-AC rooms
is obliterated.
Good sleep is not partial today.

The nerds remain perplexed
as they surrender to the whiff of the wet soil.
For the rest
Good weather becomes the new excuse.

Cover photos are changed
as the sky transits from its yellow hue.

Pit-a-patter reverberates through wet walls
as stress sublimes in the joys of the First Rain.

Stranger

John wrote to me.
I read. I felt.
But got busy
and forgot to reply.

I was idle one day
and stumbled upon his message in my inbox.
I re-read. I felt.
I wrote back to him.

Allen lived across the street
in a cocoon
opaque.
I knew nothing about him
yet I believed I did.

I looked as he left for work
I felt his exuberance.
I waited in the evening
peeked through the window
hiding behind the curtains.

With grocery bags
as he struggled
to open the door to his house
I felt his pain.
I wanted to share silences with him
and be the reason for his laughter.
I wanted to pack sandwiches
and go grocery-shopping with him.
Walk with him
and just hear him speak
for hours
and do nothing else.

I felt for Allen
the way I never did for John.

One day
I collected speckles of courage
and all that concern.
I crossed the street
reached to the other side.
And Allen came
and he struggled
with the locked door and grocery.

I offered help.
He smiled
and said “Thank You”
to a
stranger.

And then
for the first time
I felt what John felt.

Symphony

Skyscrapers are a blockade to the
beauty of the world ahead.

Inner voices subside under
the conundrum in the city.

The reek from cigarette and factory smoke
destroys the faint smell of goodness.

But She

She makes patterns in the clouds
traces constellations in the night-sky.

She swerves with the swish of winds
and croons the sound of her soul.

She whimpers. She laughs.
She is broken. She is ambitious.

With you, she composes her own symphony.