Poetry

I see you
sipping coffee
adjusting to the world
pockets perfectly covering the pain
as if lyrics of an old song aren’t commited to memory.

It takes me every ounce of my strength to gulp down the discomfort and write what I had been hiding under the blanket of gutless defeats.

There had been plenty of eclipses I have been covering under the silhouette of my smile when I found being over-shadowed by my brimming fear for not raising a voice against a bully.

I hung myself like a canvas on a ruined easel and let them sketch rough, furrowed lines, painting me a filthy face. A clear reflection of theirs and I spent years accepting bullets from my mad thoughts who never stopped watching  me, like pain was what I was supposed to feel at all times.

Jealousy was like getting entangled in a string leading to a massive knot in an un-preserved, unhealthy bonds when I thought I was weaving honeyed chits and sweet letters for my friends. Their enviousness over my skin color was far more dominant than my attempts of chasing cotton clouds with them.

I, a sad coward who couldn’t cut ties for the fear of being lonely and re-living the memories of self-made prisons; from where I watched those friends painting happy towns with others yet I waited for their feet to march back to me as a last resort. The apologies that I never gave to my ignored self snowballed over time taking away my own warmth.

My fading self that was angry, sad whose simple desires were mocked, summer dreams crushed in validation,
still challenges me with the same mouth and silently judges me for my wimpiness.

Sometimes, when I am well adjusting to this world, kissing away the fine wine, running on the shores with a blended sunshine with brave, proud feet- it takes a moment to throw me back to those years when those feet tip-toed flinchingly at the thought of being abandoned.
And it says
I see you

I am not sure how many of you have came across this but I am sure there will be subsequent number of daughters who would have heard at least once in their life “How can we take daughter’s money” from their parents. My only question is why do they feel uncomfortable in taking their own daughter’s money?

So, I have been brought up in a pretty gender-neutralized family where you divide the chores, where you must be equipped or aware of all the household work so you can sustain on your own if ever you get to move out of home city. My reason for asking this particular question isn’t that my income isn’t taken seriously, or I am not regarded as mature individual whom they can depend on or who is regarded as some ‘paraya dhan’ who gotta save up for some matrimonial alliance – nope, none at all. I am not look down upon my job or stopped while making any decisions related to my financials either but…. There is a big but here because if these are not the reasons then what are? Why it is only son’s responsibility to provide for the living at their vulnerable age? It’s not 19th or 20th century anymore. I so want parents to not feel burdened over taking or spending their daughter’s money.

I know how parents are, if they wished they would keep sustaining themselves for as long as possible, keeping their head high but after a certain age I believe they should just relax and have a gaga time, the time they thoroughly expended on their children but they don’t. They don’t relax at all. And taking money from their daughter when no other option left isn’t same either. It remotely feels like asking for help from an acquaintance as a last resort, when it shouldn’t be ‘asking for help’ and more of a right. I believe this should be normalized too like so many other things going on. Whether we get married or not our parents must feel it’s their right spending our money like we did while were growing up. If we needed something we always turned to them.

So, parents could you please stop shying around in spending ours, you own daughter’s, money. We want to spoil you the same way you did. We acquired good education because of you. We are making good money, thanks to you but stop fussing around the right-hand side column of the menu. Don’t feel pressurized thinking you don’t want to buy this outfit because it’s too expensive, because ‘my daughter works too hard for it and I can’t just waste her money’ – No, please stop. We love to buy things for you, love to buy presents for you and not just as formality; we love to spend for household expenses too. That gives another sense of equality to us. We are capable enough of sharing responsibilities and mature enough to understand how it shouldn’t be only son’s duty.

Dear Parents,
Hope you understand.

And no mom, I wasn’t arguing again 🙁 😛

Finally I hear the compositions
rain produce with the ground.
Both, vivid and vague is the
backdrop sound that
floats freely into my ears
then to heart;
ever so serene
ever so dramatic.
And I puff up being unable
to stop swaying along the melody.

Somewhere far far away
a tree was uprooted,
a landmass moved down,
a boulder stormed up,
witnessing the winds
being gutsy;
meeting with the ground too.
Crushing anything and everything in its way.
The rains conquer the mundane roads
devouring all like a parched soul.

We click pictures of blossoming skies,
they are clicked for their lands when filled with floods.

So much so for two sides of a story.

Your bond is strengthen when you laugh together,
But it becomes a powerhouse when you cry together.

I wanna finish you
in a way
that satisfies my soul.
I wanna give you a shape
of reality
that builds a massive history.
I wanna make
you a rebel
the most can relate.
I don’t want you
to stop at
rains
Or heartbeats.

You have to outlive me.

I am quiet. I am a lover. I, unquestionably
romance with life. I want to fight back
and vent when I am lending my ear.
I’m grateful for every day tapping
on my shoulder so, I choose to
forgive but never forget. With
every passing pain the only
friend I found was that
sword that defeated
my fears with its
ink and made
my hidden
scars
surrender to
mighty poems.
But I have learned
how to be in control.
I have mastered the skill
how to carry the weights of
my words along my fat dreams.
I am growing each day, conquering
every minute. I reign by being kind to self,
not letting verses of grief drown me anymore.
A writer is born and I’ll turn it into a greater one.

The ‘K’ in my name stands for a ‘Knight’.
(If we go by the trend) 😉

I’m that scratched knee,
waiting for its human kid to blow air;
who’s all grown up now.

• 

• 

I’d spread them
even in the harshest winters
to withstand all the seasons with pride.

I wouldn’t let the downfall
or the criticism be the demise
of my soaring words.

I’d feel the air of liberty
fiercely across my face
through the gliders of literature.

Nothing hurts more than witnessing your once loved one now turned into ashes of despair and that the time has won again by reducing to zero for someone but still thumping for you as a vile reminder of the memories you’ll now carry into your heart till the day you die, of your people gone beyond. 

That now you won’t be able to hear them calling your name again. You won’t be able to see their faces while they adored you. You won’t get a call from them anymore And you’ll sit there wondering why ever you missed even a single call when they were alive.

One day somebody would casually talk about them and you’d spill the beans with a heavy heart and a piercing pain in your chest to forcibly say “It’s fine” when people would apologize for unknowingly bringing up the topic.  Only you’d know it’s never going to be fine.