This little poem is what Ranjni would call 'a flash of sudden imagination'. or rather a 'lash' of sudden imagination. The poem struck me when i was talking to a girl on whom i had, what one can call a 'crush' but things didnt work out. That time an eyelash fell on my hand and i wished that the moment would last forever. Well, it didnt. But then, it gave me this poem. Unlike my other poems, this is a little depressing due to the inherent sad tone.. Enjoy!!
Broken from my eye,
fallen on my palm in a flash
So near, and yet so far
Oh, my beautiful shiny eyelash.
Wishes abound hidden,
within the black cuticle of yours
And yet, thee, i wish to retain
just for the time, that was ours.
You irritated me, poking in my eye,
and often, you brought me tears
but without you, incomplete is my eye
for you were in it all these years.
Now you are gone, and have become a desolate's wish
and as I see you depart, i have but one desire
Come back, my love, to the eye of my heart
Come back, my love, for you, I admire.
Away, away, away you'll fly,
and before long, you'll be gone.
The lash of my eye, the beat of my heart,
why did you leave me alone?
Saturday, July 9, 2011
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
A strange mistress
I Love….maybe you!
Love is a strange mistress. The more you pay it in the beginning, the more you suffer when it leaves. Falling for this sensual seductress was Vishal, who, on seeing Asha, fell for her completely. When someone asked him much latter what he saw in her in the first meeting, he would often gaze in the sky for a moment before smiling mildly and saying, “Perhaps her silky hair. And her expressive eyes. And her soft skin. And her dusky complexion. And her ringing voice. Well, I fell in love with her totally!”
“Let the reader of this note know that there’s a lot more to lose than just hearts when you fall in love.” Asha’s hands were trembling when she read the first line of the letter she was holding in her hands. She remembered the first time they met. That meeting had left an indelible mark on her.
“Hi! Do you know Zeel?” Vishal kicked off the conversation right away with Asha. She looked at him strangely, as if he were from another planet altogether.
“You are a senior?” she asked coldly. Vishal was used to being thought of as someone a couple of years older than he actually was, owing to his huge built.
“I am in your class only. But then, you might not have noticed me.”
“Maybe I have seen you. But I don’t remember,” she replied, trying to make up for her earlier goof.
“So, can I have your mobile number?” Vishal never hesitated asking the number of anyone. But maybe it wasn’t the case with Asha, as she clearly seemed affronted.
“I don’t have a mobile,” she said stiffly. Vishal looked a bit crestfallen, but started walking away. Just as Asha turned back to chat with her friends again, he turned back, tapped her on the shoulder and said, “My bad. I should have thought.”
“What?”
“That you are not the type who would keep a mobile.” Saying this, he started walking away. If he had eyes on the back of his head, he would have seen Asha turn red due to anger.
I loved her from the bottom of my heart. And she? She just played with me, like we play with toys in our childhood. Play with it, laugh at it and then, throw it when you don’t need it. Maybe I deserve this end for being foolish enough to consider her flirtations as being love. Stupid, stupid me! And she? Well, she was always forgetful. So maybe, she’ll forget me soon!
First year in a medical college is often remembered by everyone as being the worst phase of their life. It’s the period when one realizes that merely knowing English is not enough in MBBS. One has to be fluent in Greek and Latin too, just to know what does ‘sternocleidomastoid’ or ‘peroneus longus’ means. Asha was also cursing her lack of knowledge in the dead languages of the yore, when the lecturer jolted her back to attention with a shout, “Hey you, blue dress!” a dozen girls in a blue dress and another dozen in blue jeans looked up. Asha was one of them too. In fact, she was the one at whom the shout was directed.
“Yes ma’am?” she stood up apprehensively.
“Tell the nerve supply of biceps brachii.” Asha had not even opened the ‘red monster’, the textbook of Anatomy by B.D. Chaurasiya, and here she was asked a question whose answer formed one word of over ten-thousand written in the book. She was silent as a stone. Suddenly, she heard a tapping sound on her desk. Looking down, she saw Vishal scribbling on her desk ‘MCN C8-T1’.
“We are waiting, miss. If you don’t know, you may walk out of the lecture now!” the lecturer shouted again. She looked pissed off from the first minute. Perhaps the department had rejected her application to be an Associate professor.
“Musculocutaneous nerve, nerve roots C8-T1.” The lecturer seemed a bit shocked and crestfallen too, not having been able to carry out any punishment. Her simmering anger remained simmering and Vishal suddenly became something of a savior in the eyes of Asha. After the lecture, she came to him and held his hand, saying, “Thanks a lot Vikas!”
“Er, welcome. But you got the name wrong. Its Vishal!” he replied, surprised that she forgot his name.
“Oh yeah… I am a bit forgetful,” Asha tapped her head with her palm, and continued, “but thanks for saving my skin today! You know, I have worked very hard to reach here, and I don’t want to lose out due to any distraction. That’s why I don’t give out my number to boys.”
“It’s okay. Perfectly alright,” Vishal replied, growing increasingly uncomfortable with his hand still held by Asha.
“But I think I can make an exception for my savior. So give me your number and I will give you a missed call.”
Numbers were promptly exchanged. Messages followed later. Initially, it started the way it always does, with forwards, jokes, shayris etc. In a few weeks, the messages grew increasingly intimate as they started chatting on mobile. Then followed the “good night. Will miss you over the weekend.” And for the first time, Vishal felt that they were more than just good friends. And that was his first mistake.
She never seemed to care. Or maybe I had just expected too much of her. Didn’t she always say, “Don’t expect too much from others.”? Little did I know that she was referring to herself! I always expected that one day she would accept my love. Well, the whole world was busy loving each other and here I was, in love with a girl who did not want to fall in love.
“Vishal, are you serious?” a surprised, if not shocked Asha asked.
“The only time I was more serious was when I was admitted in the hospital. That time even the doctor said that I was very serious. Ha ha ha.” Asha got irritated. Vishal could not stop himself from trying to be funny even at that delicate time. He had just expressed to Asha that the amorous overtures towards her were truly an indication of her affixed place in his heart, and that with each beat, she grew dearer to him.
“Well, I love you too!” Asha replied coyly. Vishal could not believe his ears. In any case they were flushed red. His head thudded with blood as he realized the bliss of being loved by the one you love the most. He squeezed Asha’s hand tightly, and whispered in her ear, “I am so much in love with you sweetheart!” Saying this, he left. As he walked, Asha saw him jump a little while walking, and even heard him whistle for the first time. She shuddered inwardly, thinking what she had done.
Her fears came true when Vishal met her the next day and asked, “So, where do you want to go for our first date? Marriot? Taj? Or the humble CCD?”
“Date?” Asha asked, a little surprised.
“Well, yeah. Why?”
“See, I don’t go out alone with a boy. So, I am really sorry Vishal.”
“Um, okay. No problem!” Vishal replied a little crestfallen.
“And, there’s something…” Asha’s sentence was cut short by a shout from Harish, Vishal’s friend. Vishal went away, after saying a hurried “bye sweet heart”. Asha wondered how to explain things to him. She thought of messaging him or calling him up but it seemed too informal and rude. She had to clarify everything face to face. From a distance, she saw Vishal slapping Harish's palm, and heard him say, “It’s a bet!” That night, she messaged Vishal, asking him about the bet. He sent a cryptic reply, saying she would find it out the next day. Confused and worried, she went to sleep.
“Are you ready?” the under-dressed, over-enthusiastic host shouted to an audience craving for entertainment in the annual song-and-dance extravaganza of the college. A loud cheer from the audience, which was mostly directed at the skimpily dressed host, Alisha, confirmed that they shared her enthusiasm equally. One after the other, the crowd cheered and jeered, depending on whether the performer was from their batch or from the other batch. A few belted out some melodious tunes, and most rendered a crass cacophony, both receiving equal treatment of cheers and jeers. At last, walked in Vishal, who held the microphone in his hand and instead of singing, spoke something.
But of course it was a joke for her. Everything was. Vishal is always that entertainer who makes her laugh when she is sad; who lifts her bags when she feels lazy and who stops studying to talk with her when she is bored. Vishal had never been more than a joker, and his biggest mistake was to think that he was a king of his queen, Asha.
“Asha, can you come up on stage please?” Vishal’s voice emanated from the speakers. In spite of the excellent sound system and a thousand “go!” prompts from all around her, Asha seemed transfixed to her seat. It was as if she had not heard Vishal speak. Finally, after what seemed an eternity of time, she stood up and walked up to the stage.
“Here I am, Vishal,” she stammered. Deep down, she already knew what Vishal was attempting, what her reply would be and what his reaction would be. She feared the worst and knew it would come to pass.
“Asha, you proclaimed your love for me a few days ago. Will you repeat it in front of the college again?”
“But why Vishal?” she shuddered. Why do all the fears have a propensity of coming true?
“Because we love each other. Then why fear announcing it?”
“Because…”
“Yes?”
“Because I don’t love you Vishal,” she said blankly, trying her best to hide the pain within. Despite the excellent sound system, this time, it was Vishal who seemed transfixed and muted. After a thousand shouts from the audience prompting him to speak, he stammered, “But…didn’t you say…a few days ago?”
“Oh Vishal, how can I explain it? I thought you were joking with me! You flirt with girls all the time don’t you? I thought you were just playing a joke!”
“Flirt? Did you ever see me flirting any girl? Ask Alisha here. Have I ever looked at her? Half the class thinks we are a couple. I myself thought so!”
“I am really sorry Vishal. But I don’t have any such feelings towards you and I can’t lie in front of the whole college. I never knew…” before she could complete her sentence, Asha broke into a sob. Vishal too broke down on the stage. That was when the first tomato was hit on his face. It was only the first of the many that would follow.
Let the reader of this note know that I do not hold Asha responsible for my suicide in any way. I have always loved her, and will always love her. It was my mistake and I own up to it. Love you Asha, but hate you Vishal! Good bye!
Asha broke into tears. Why was she always so confused about Vishal? But, if she didn’t love him, then why she held the moments spent with him so close to her heart? Why she could never see Vishal even looking at another girl? Why her heart skipped a beat every time she saw him? Or was it just normal? She was all confused.
But then suddenly, she felt her heart speak something to her, almost in a whisper. It spoke Vishal’s name. Did she love him? Yes, of course she did! She loved him from the very beginning, but failed to recognize the feeling. Love may be blind, but it helps one see the best colors of life. Alas, people like Asha are color-blind for most parts of their lives.
“I love him,” she said matter-of-factly to Alisha, who had handed her the note. Dried tears formed lines on her otherwise pretty face. She was brimming with anger on Asha. Her indecision had cost the life of one of best guy she had ever known. Why, she wondered, it happened that someone loves that person who will never reciprocate, and ignores the one who loves them?
“I will save him!”
“What?” Alisha was shook from her reverie.
“I said I will save Vishal. Let’s go his home. For, if the ending is not happy, the story is not complete, Alisha!”
Alisha started her two-wheeler and the drove it like she had a hundred guys running after her. Within a few minutes, panting and sweating, they were at Vishal’s place. The door was open and the two rushed into his room. Vishal’s place looked every inch of a bachelor’s apartment. He stayed in a one-room apartment alone, not having adjusted to the hostel life. Alisha shrieked on seeing a line of blood. Being a medical student, neither were averse to seeing blood, but it belonged to someone they held close to their hearts.
Following the sanguine trail, they reached in the bathroom where Vishal’s pale body, devoid of a large amount of blood, lay. A slit was clearly visible on his wrist. Radial artery. Asha quickly took out her stethoscope and auscultated Vishal’s heart. It was beating, faintly and rapidly. The latter was the key. Tachycardia is the initial response to hemorrhage. There was hope that he could be saved!
“Alisha, get me a pint of Normal saline and an IV set. And an ampoule of adrenaline 1 in 1000 with the syringe.” Alisha hurried to the nearby medical store, while Asha tied a bandage proximal to the slit and also over the slit to prevent further blood loss. After that, she started with chest compressions as Alisha returned with the medication and the syringe. She quickly gave the adrenaline injection and started the IV drip.
“Who…who is there?” a weak voice emanated from Vishal.
“Vishal, it’s me, Asha, and Alisha. We saved your life!”
“Why?” he asked exasperatedly.
“Vishal, I love you.”
“What?”
No further questions were asked. No further answers given as Asha placed her lips on Vishal’s for a lingering kiss.
“I love you, Vishal.”
Love is a strange mistress. The more you pay it in the beginning, the more you suffer in the end. But it is indeed the potion that ends all sufferings.
Love is a strange mistress. The more you pay it in the beginning, the more you suffer when it leaves. Falling for this sensual seductress was Vishal, who, on seeing Asha, fell for her completely. When someone asked him much latter what he saw in her in the first meeting, he would often gaze in the sky for a moment before smiling mildly and saying, “Perhaps her silky hair. And her expressive eyes. And her soft skin. And her dusky complexion. And her ringing voice. Well, I fell in love with her totally!”
“Let the reader of this note know that there’s a lot more to lose than just hearts when you fall in love.” Asha’s hands were trembling when she read the first line of the letter she was holding in her hands. She remembered the first time they met. That meeting had left an indelible mark on her.
“Hi! Do you know Zeel?” Vishal kicked off the conversation right away with Asha. She looked at him strangely, as if he were from another planet altogether.
“You are a senior?” she asked coldly. Vishal was used to being thought of as someone a couple of years older than he actually was, owing to his huge built.
“I am in your class only. But then, you might not have noticed me.”
“Maybe I have seen you. But I don’t remember,” she replied, trying to make up for her earlier goof.
“So, can I have your mobile number?” Vishal never hesitated asking the number of anyone. But maybe it wasn’t the case with Asha, as she clearly seemed affronted.
“I don’t have a mobile,” she said stiffly. Vishal looked a bit crestfallen, but started walking away. Just as Asha turned back to chat with her friends again, he turned back, tapped her on the shoulder and said, “My bad. I should have thought.”
“What?”
“That you are not the type who would keep a mobile.” Saying this, he started walking away. If he had eyes on the back of his head, he would have seen Asha turn red due to anger.
I loved her from the bottom of my heart. And she? She just played with me, like we play with toys in our childhood. Play with it, laugh at it and then, throw it when you don’t need it. Maybe I deserve this end for being foolish enough to consider her flirtations as being love. Stupid, stupid me! And she? Well, she was always forgetful. So maybe, she’ll forget me soon!
First year in a medical college is often remembered by everyone as being the worst phase of their life. It’s the period when one realizes that merely knowing English is not enough in MBBS. One has to be fluent in Greek and Latin too, just to know what does ‘sternocleidomastoid’ or ‘peroneus longus’ means. Asha was also cursing her lack of knowledge in the dead languages of the yore, when the lecturer jolted her back to attention with a shout, “Hey you, blue dress!” a dozen girls in a blue dress and another dozen in blue jeans looked up. Asha was one of them too. In fact, she was the one at whom the shout was directed.
“Yes ma’am?” she stood up apprehensively.
“Tell the nerve supply of biceps brachii.” Asha had not even opened the ‘red monster’, the textbook of Anatomy by B.D. Chaurasiya, and here she was asked a question whose answer formed one word of over ten-thousand written in the book. She was silent as a stone. Suddenly, she heard a tapping sound on her desk. Looking down, she saw Vishal scribbling on her desk ‘MCN C8-T1’.
“We are waiting, miss. If you don’t know, you may walk out of the lecture now!” the lecturer shouted again. She looked pissed off from the first minute. Perhaps the department had rejected her application to be an Associate professor.
“Musculocutaneous nerve, nerve roots C8-T1.” The lecturer seemed a bit shocked and crestfallen too, not having been able to carry out any punishment. Her simmering anger remained simmering and Vishal suddenly became something of a savior in the eyes of Asha. After the lecture, she came to him and held his hand, saying, “Thanks a lot Vikas!”
“Er, welcome. But you got the name wrong. Its Vishal!” he replied, surprised that she forgot his name.
“Oh yeah… I am a bit forgetful,” Asha tapped her head with her palm, and continued, “but thanks for saving my skin today! You know, I have worked very hard to reach here, and I don’t want to lose out due to any distraction. That’s why I don’t give out my number to boys.”
“It’s okay. Perfectly alright,” Vishal replied, growing increasingly uncomfortable with his hand still held by Asha.
“But I think I can make an exception for my savior. So give me your number and I will give you a missed call.”
Numbers were promptly exchanged. Messages followed later. Initially, it started the way it always does, with forwards, jokes, shayris etc. In a few weeks, the messages grew increasingly intimate as they started chatting on mobile. Then followed the “good night. Will miss you over the weekend.” And for the first time, Vishal felt that they were more than just good friends. And that was his first mistake.
She never seemed to care. Or maybe I had just expected too much of her. Didn’t she always say, “Don’t expect too much from others.”? Little did I know that she was referring to herself! I always expected that one day she would accept my love. Well, the whole world was busy loving each other and here I was, in love with a girl who did not want to fall in love.
“Vishal, are you serious?” a surprised, if not shocked Asha asked.
“The only time I was more serious was when I was admitted in the hospital. That time even the doctor said that I was very serious. Ha ha ha.” Asha got irritated. Vishal could not stop himself from trying to be funny even at that delicate time. He had just expressed to Asha that the amorous overtures towards her were truly an indication of her affixed place in his heart, and that with each beat, she grew dearer to him.
“Well, I love you too!” Asha replied coyly. Vishal could not believe his ears. In any case they were flushed red. His head thudded with blood as he realized the bliss of being loved by the one you love the most. He squeezed Asha’s hand tightly, and whispered in her ear, “I am so much in love with you sweetheart!” Saying this, he left. As he walked, Asha saw him jump a little while walking, and even heard him whistle for the first time. She shuddered inwardly, thinking what she had done.
Her fears came true when Vishal met her the next day and asked, “So, where do you want to go for our first date? Marriot? Taj? Or the humble CCD?”
“Date?” Asha asked, a little surprised.
“Well, yeah. Why?”
“See, I don’t go out alone with a boy. So, I am really sorry Vishal.”
“Um, okay. No problem!” Vishal replied a little crestfallen.
“And, there’s something…” Asha’s sentence was cut short by a shout from Harish, Vishal’s friend. Vishal went away, after saying a hurried “bye sweet heart”. Asha wondered how to explain things to him. She thought of messaging him or calling him up but it seemed too informal and rude. She had to clarify everything face to face. From a distance, she saw Vishal slapping Harish's palm, and heard him say, “It’s a bet!” That night, she messaged Vishal, asking him about the bet. He sent a cryptic reply, saying she would find it out the next day. Confused and worried, she went to sleep.
“Are you ready?” the under-dressed, over-enthusiastic host shouted to an audience craving for entertainment in the annual song-and-dance extravaganza of the college. A loud cheer from the audience, which was mostly directed at the skimpily dressed host, Alisha, confirmed that they shared her enthusiasm equally. One after the other, the crowd cheered and jeered, depending on whether the performer was from their batch or from the other batch. A few belted out some melodious tunes, and most rendered a crass cacophony, both receiving equal treatment of cheers and jeers. At last, walked in Vishal, who held the microphone in his hand and instead of singing, spoke something.
But of course it was a joke for her. Everything was. Vishal is always that entertainer who makes her laugh when she is sad; who lifts her bags when she feels lazy and who stops studying to talk with her when she is bored. Vishal had never been more than a joker, and his biggest mistake was to think that he was a king of his queen, Asha.
“Asha, can you come up on stage please?” Vishal’s voice emanated from the speakers. In spite of the excellent sound system and a thousand “go!” prompts from all around her, Asha seemed transfixed to her seat. It was as if she had not heard Vishal speak. Finally, after what seemed an eternity of time, she stood up and walked up to the stage.
“Here I am, Vishal,” she stammered. Deep down, she already knew what Vishal was attempting, what her reply would be and what his reaction would be. She feared the worst and knew it would come to pass.
“Asha, you proclaimed your love for me a few days ago. Will you repeat it in front of the college again?”
“But why Vishal?” she shuddered. Why do all the fears have a propensity of coming true?
“Because we love each other. Then why fear announcing it?”
“Because…”
“Yes?”
“Because I don’t love you Vishal,” she said blankly, trying her best to hide the pain within. Despite the excellent sound system, this time, it was Vishal who seemed transfixed and muted. After a thousand shouts from the audience prompting him to speak, he stammered, “But…didn’t you say…a few days ago?”
“Oh Vishal, how can I explain it? I thought you were joking with me! You flirt with girls all the time don’t you? I thought you were just playing a joke!”
“Flirt? Did you ever see me flirting any girl? Ask Alisha here. Have I ever looked at her? Half the class thinks we are a couple. I myself thought so!”
“I am really sorry Vishal. But I don’t have any such feelings towards you and I can’t lie in front of the whole college. I never knew…” before she could complete her sentence, Asha broke into a sob. Vishal too broke down on the stage. That was when the first tomato was hit on his face. It was only the first of the many that would follow.
Let the reader of this note know that I do not hold Asha responsible for my suicide in any way. I have always loved her, and will always love her. It was my mistake and I own up to it. Love you Asha, but hate you Vishal! Good bye!
Asha broke into tears. Why was she always so confused about Vishal? But, if she didn’t love him, then why she held the moments spent with him so close to her heart? Why she could never see Vishal even looking at another girl? Why her heart skipped a beat every time she saw him? Or was it just normal? She was all confused.
But then suddenly, she felt her heart speak something to her, almost in a whisper. It spoke Vishal’s name. Did she love him? Yes, of course she did! She loved him from the very beginning, but failed to recognize the feeling. Love may be blind, but it helps one see the best colors of life. Alas, people like Asha are color-blind for most parts of their lives.
“I love him,” she said matter-of-factly to Alisha, who had handed her the note. Dried tears formed lines on her otherwise pretty face. She was brimming with anger on Asha. Her indecision had cost the life of one of best guy she had ever known. Why, she wondered, it happened that someone loves that person who will never reciprocate, and ignores the one who loves them?
“I will save him!”
“What?” Alisha was shook from her reverie.
“I said I will save Vishal. Let’s go his home. For, if the ending is not happy, the story is not complete, Alisha!”
Alisha started her two-wheeler and the drove it like she had a hundred guys running after her. Within a few minutes, panting and sweating, they were at Vishal’s place. The door was open and the two rushed into his room. Vishal’s place looked every inch of a bachelor’s apartment. He stayed in a one-room apartment alone, not having adjusted to the hostel life. Alisha shrieked on seeing a line of blood. Being a medical student, neither were averse to seeing blood, but it belonged to someone they held close to their hearts.
Following the sanguine trail, they reached in the bathroom where Vishal’s pale body, devoid of a large amount of blood, lay. A slit was clearly visible on his wrist. Radial artery. Asha quickly took out her stethoscope and auscultated Vishal’s heart. It was beating, faintly and rapidly. The latter was the key. Tachycardia is the initial response to hemorrhage. There was hope that he could be saved!
“Alisha, get me a pint of Normal saline and an IV set. And an ampoule of adrenaline 1 in 1000 with the syringe.” Alisha hurried to the nearby medical store, while Asha tied a bandage proximal to the slit and also over the slit to prevent further blood loss. After that, she started with chest compressions as Alisha returned with the medication and the syringe. She quickly gave the adrenaline injection and started the IV drip.
“Who…who is there?” a weak voice emanated from Vishal.
“Vishal, it’s me, Asha, and Alisha. We saved your life!”
“Why?” he asked exasperatedly.
“Vishal, I love you.”
“What?”
No further questions were asked. No further answers given as Asha placed her lips on Vishal’s for a lingering kiss.
“I love you, Vishal.”
Love is a strange mistress. The more you pay it in the beginning, the more you suffer in the end. But it is indeed the potion that ends all sufferings.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Addicted
Olfacted into my system
coursing through my veins
your fragrance, oh, so ambrosial,
an antidote to life's most pains.
Addicted i am, addicted to you,
Aah! The hours spent with you, seem so few.
Stroking my longing lips,
calming my suffering soul
your touch, oh, so silken,
to do your will, me you cajole.
Addicted i am, addicted to you,
Aah! The hours spent with you, seem so few
Beheld into my eyes,
bejewelled into my sense,
your form, oh, so ethereal,
an image imprint on my lens.
Addicted i am, addicted to you,
Aah! The hours spent with you, seem so few.
coursing through my veins
your fragrance, oh, so ambrosial,
an antidote to life's most pains.
Addicted i am, addicted to you,
Aah! The hours spent with you, seem so few.
Stroking my longing lips,
calming my suffering soul
your touch, oh, so silken,
to do your will, me you cajole.
Addicted i am, addicted to you,
Aah! The hours spent with you, seem so few
Beheld into my eyes,
bejewelled into my sense,
your form, oh, so ethereal,
an image imprint on my lens.
Addicted i am, addicted to you,
Aah! The hours spent with you, seem so few.
Statistic
A statistic maketh a man
The man becometh a number.
The track is long, winding,
With numerous hurdles thrown in at will,
And running, slaving on it,
Are the zombies, toiling with an inked till.
A statistic maketh a man
The man becometh a number
A blasphemy it is, on the track,
To have an emotive quality.
And digits of the numerical kind matter
More than a human personality.
A statistic maketh a man
The man becometh a number
The track ends where the rainbow does,
And the gold at the end is but a Leprechaun’s.
But instead of seeing the seven splendid shades,
He grabs the gold at the advent of dawn.
A statistic maketh a man
The man becometh a number
Time to be aroused
From a wakeful slumber.
Stop once and think,
Is the effort worth the number?
The man becometh a number.
The track is long, winding,
With numerous hurdles thrown in at will,
And running, slaving on it,
Are the zombies, toiling with an inked till.
A statistic maketh a man
The man becometh a number
A blasphemy it is, on the track,
To have an emotive quality.
And digits of the numerical kind matter
More than a human personality.
A statistic maketh a man
The man becometh a number
The track ends where the rainbow does,
And the gold at the end is but a Leprechaun’s.
But instead of seeing the seven splendid shades,
He grabs the gold at the advent of dawn.
A statistic maketh a man
The man becometh a number
Time to be aroused
From a wakeful slumber.
Stop once and think,
Is the effort worth the number?
Statistic
A statistic maketh a man
The man becometh a number.
The track is long, winding,
With numerous hurdles thrown in at will,
And running, slaving on it,
Are the zombies, toiling with an inked till.
A statistic maketh a man
The man becometh a number
A blasphemy it is, on the track,
To have an emotive quality.
And digits of the numerical kind matter
More than a human personality.
A statistic maketh a man
The man becometh a number
The track ends where the rainbow does,
And the gold at the end is but a Leprechaun’s.
But instead of seeing the seven splendid shades,
He grabs the gold at the advent of dawn.
A statistic maketh a man
The man becometh a number
Time to be aroused
From a wakeful slumber.
Stop once and think,
Is the effort worth the number?
The man becometh a number.
The track is long, winding,
With numerous hurdles thrown in at will,
And running, slaving on it,
Are the zombies, toiling with an inked till.
A statistic maketh a man
The man becometh a number
A blasphemy it is, on the track,
To have an emotive quality.
And digits of the numerical kind matter
More than a human personality.
A statistic maketh a man
The man becometh a number
The track ends where the rainbow does,
And the gold at the end is but a Leprechaun’s.
But instead of seeing the seven splendid shades,
He grabs the gold at the advent of dawn.
A statistic maketh a man
The man becometh a number
Time to be aroused
From a wakeful slumber.
Stop once and think,
Is the effort worth the number?
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Waiting
Dingy and dark looks the sky,
The horizon, betraying of light
Prolonged, oh, so protracted
Is the spell of the nigrescent night.
Anticipating eyes, anxious faces,
Keep gazing at lands far away,
Waiting for the first ray to burst forth
A Godsend is all, for whom they pray.
Little do they know,
That their harbinger has come,
With open eyes, they sleep,
Not knowing what they can become.
How long shalt Thou take, O Man?
To seize the control of Your fate?
You are filled with energy enormous,
And yet for a hero, why do You wait?
The horizon, betraying of light
Prolonged, oh, so protracted
Is the spell of the nigrescent night.
Anticipating eyes, anxious faces,
Keep gazing at lands far away,
Waiting for the first ray to burst forth
A Godsend is all, for whom they pray.
Little do they know,
That their harbinger has come,
With open eyes, they sleep,
Not knowing what they can become.
How long shalt Thou take, O Man?
To seize the control of Your fate?
You are filled with energy enormous,
And yet for a hero, why do You wait?
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
The Exception
‘Dream-come-true’ is an expression used so many times by the nouveau-successful that it has ceased to generate the same awe inspiring emotions in the listener. Perhaps they don’t inspire the same emotions in the speaker too. Most people live their lives to live their fantasies, to wait for the one day that their wildest dreams would come true and when they would get an opportunity to advice their next of kin on how to realize their dreams.
Shyam dreaded his dreams. He didn’t fear the nightmares, for they were far too mild compared to the life he lived, filled with greed, vice and poisonous snakes-in-the-form-of-people all around him. What he feared was the chance that his dreams might come true. It might look straight out of another mindless Hollywood blood fest, but his dreams had a strange propensity to come true. And come true in the most terrifying of ways. Shyam still shuddered with horror when he remembered the incident that made him realize the power of his dreams.
Shyam woke up sweating. He had just witnessed a horrific accident of his secretary, Manish, with a speeding car in his dreams. He clearly remembered the number plate of the car GJ 1 HP 2334. It was odd to see a car from Gujarat in Delhi. Dismissing it as yet another manifestation of his over active imagination, he went to sleep again, only to be woken up by a phone call on his private number. It was to be used only in the strictest of emergencies. Worried, he picked up the phone.
“Sir, I have some bad news!” an urgent voice spoke on the other end.
“How is Manish?” Shyam asked instinctively. The other person seemed genuinely surprised at his reply.
“Sir, how come…you…”
“Shut up and tell me how is Manish?”
“Sir, I am sorry to say this, but he is no more. He was hit by a speeding car yesterday night while crossing the road.”
Shyam was too stunned to talk. Was it a déjà-vu? Or just a mere coincidence? If it were the latter, it was a very costly one.
“Sir, are you there?”
“Yes. Tell me, why didn’t anyone tell me about this yesterday?”
“The police hadn’t identified the body. They broke the news just now. The culpable car was from Gujarat, number GJ 1 HP 2334. The police were surprised to find a car from Gujarat in Delhi.”
Shyam was trembling. He felt the fine trickling of beads of sweat down his back, inspite of full air-conditioning.
“The police tracked down the driver, who confessed that he was driving under the influence of alcohol…” Shyam cut the phone, held his head in his hands and sat down on his bed.
If it had been this single incident, Shyam would have gladly shrugged it as a coincidence. But gradually, he saw that most of his early morning dreams were getting true. He tried to think of happy thoughts before going to sleep, hoping for some good, happy dreams. Sometimes he succeeded. Other times, he was too afraid to remember what he had seen. People try to live their dreams. Shyam died every day fearing his would come true.
He woke up sweating that day. This was not one of his usual nightmares, but something far worse.
He sees a gun. Its nozzle is pointed at the temple of an unseen person. The index finger squeezes the trigger slowly. It trembles a little, but the firm resolve is evident in the contracted muscles. And then, the trigger is pressed. There is a loud clamor and the then a blood spattered face is seen. The face, as does the blood, belongs to the Chairman of Ace industries, among the richest men in the country, and on the Forbes’ list. He also sees the hand that held the gun, and a ring with two alphabets engraved on it-‘SM’.
Shyam filled a glass of water and drank it in a gulp. It did little to ease his stress-induced tachycardia. As he lifted the glass towards his lips, he saw the ring with ‘SM’ inscribed on it. It was given by his lovely wife Meera. He started trembling from a fear he had never known. The hands which could not kill a fly were destined to kill a person. Or were they? Only time would tell. Shyam’s dreams would come true within 24 hours, and the deadline had started, literally.
“Suhani,” he called his new secretary and said, “I want guards from a private security agency around me for 24 hours,” then he raised his hand to stop Suhani when she started asking why, and continued, “Don’t ask me why. It’s a matter of life and death of the most important person of the country.” Suhani knew better than to question further. One of her biggest assets was that she knew when to keep quiet and when to spread disquiet. It made her perfect for her secretarial job. Her efficiency was unparalleled in the office and its evidence was visible when a uniformed security guard presented himself to the office’s doors. Shyam allowed him to walk into his cabin.
“What’s your name?”
“Vishal. Vishal Singh.”
“Listen Vishal, I will employ you for only one day. Don’t worry, if you carry out your duty successfully, you’ll receive payments equivalent to a month’s salary. If you fail, you won’t find anyone to collect the money from.” The instructions were crisp, lucid and clear. Shyam needn’t have said anything more. Vishal was intelligent enough to know what the man in front of him meant. But he wasn’t the least prepared for what Shyam explained him to do. Normally he was used to protecting people from dangers. This case was intriguing at its best and dangerous at its worst.
“Vishal,” Shyam said gravely, “I want you to be with me throughout these 24 hours and ensure that I do not lay my hands on any weapon. I know it’s a strange request, but the life of the Prime minister of India is at stake.” Vishal did not seek further information. He stamped his right foot on the ground and saluted Shyam saying, “Yes sir!”
There was a knock on the door. “Come in”, Shyam said in a stern voice. His throat betrayed the tumult in his head. Suhani walked in with a few files. Vishal ogled at her behind as she walked back, but on seeing Shyam’s frown from the corner of his eye, he looked down, embarrassed.
“Can’t you keep your eyes under control?” Shyam asked sternly.
“Sorry sir. Old habits die hard!”
“Learn to curb them, for someday old habits can be deadly.” Vishal let this comment pass.
Sometimes, hours may pass unnoticed, and sometimes each moment may seem excruciating. Shyam felt something similar as the second-hand of the clock ticked slowly across, swiping across the face of the clock, wiping it clean every minute and replacing it with a fresh bout of fear for Shyam. Vishal, on his part, kept strict vigil. He had even asked Shyam to get rid of all sharp instruments, which included even his pens. For the safety of his own life, he decided that certain papers can wait for his signature.
Fear. The emotion which strips one bare, naked in front of self. The creeping monster which corrodes the soul, and renders the person hollow. Fear. Shyam felt the same monster creeping upon him, trickling down his back, dripping down his brow. He tried to wipe it away, but could not keep it away from crippling his spine. His hands shook even when he sipped water from the glass, even when he called his wife to inform that he would be staying in the office till the next day morning.
Thus passed the day, without any incident. Nobody got hurt from Shyam’s hands. Vishal on his part, stayed alert throughout, his eyes not blinking a bit. As the clock struck 5 in the morning, thereby completing the twenty-four hour period since Shyam saw that cursed dream, it was time, he decided, to leave for his home. Vishal drove him home. As he reached home, Shyam knocked the door of his home. His daughter opened it.
“Oh dad! What kept you out till so late?”
“Manisha, I was busy with some work.”
“Some work? Oh really!” Manisha laughed as she let Shyam in. As he walked in, he never noticed Vishal staring at Manisha from the angle of his eye while receiving the money. How much would he repent missing this vital link of eye later on!
As Shyam was working though his files the next day, a phone call jarred his attention.
“Shyam! Come home fast!” the voice from the other end shrieked. It was his wife.
“What happened?” Shyam asked, worried.
“Manisha, our Manisha…” Shyam’s wife cut the phone mid way. It was enough to make him dash through the office. As he sat down in his car, he called Vishal’s number, but his call didn’t go through. As he reached home, he dashed through the door and saw a sight which would have made a weaker man faint. On the floor lay his daughter, naked, except for two clothes on her private parts for dignity, and a pool of blood around her. In the now-congealed blood, somebody had crawled with a finger ‘VISHAL’. It was enough for Shyam to grasp the situation. Forensic reports only confirmed what Shyam had guessed. There were Vishal’s fingerprints all over Manisha’s body. It took just one call from Shyam to the Police Commissioner, and his close friend, to catch Vishal. And it took the Delhi police just over an hour to wriggle out the confession from him. He confessed that it was he who had silently entered Shyam’s home, caught hold of Manisha and had raped her repeatedly, before killing her by slitting her wrists. Shyam asked for a revolver from the police. Without further questioning, he was handed one. He placed the nozzle between Vishal’s eyes and pulled the trigger. The devil incarnate went down in a spurt of blood. Shyam pocketed the gun and walked away. Reaching his home, he had a look at the place where his daughter lay covered in nothing but a pool of blood. Testing his luck, he removed four of the remaining five bullets, revolved the cylinder for a long time, put the nozzle at his temple. The index finger squeezes the trigger slowly. It trembles a little, but the firm resolve is evident in the contracted muscles. And then, the trigger is pressed. There is a loud clamor and the then a blood spattered face is seen. The next day, the whole nation was in shock over the suicide of Mr. Shyam Saxena, the Chairman of Ace Industries, and among the richest men in the world with his name in every Forbes’ list. The reason for his suicide was kept tightly under wraps.
Shyam’s dream became true more than twenty-four hours after he saw it, breaking his own rule. But isn’t there an exception to every rule?
Shyam dreaded his dreams. He didn’t fear the nightmares, for they were far too mild compared to the life he lived, filled with greed, vice and poisonous snakes-in-the-form-of-people all around him. What he feared was the chance that his dreams might come true. It might look straight out of another mindless Hollywood blood fest, but his dreams had a strange propensity to come true. And come true in the most terrifying of ways. Shyam still shuddered with horror when he remembered the incident that made him realize the power of his dreams.
Shyam woke up sweating. He had just witnessed a horrific accident of his secretary, Manish, with a speeding car in his dreams. He clearly remembered the number plate of the car GJ 1 HP 2334. It was odd to see a car from Gujarat in Delhi. Dismissing it as yet another manifestation of his over active imagination, he went to sleep again, only to be woken up by a phone call on his private number. It was to be used only in the strictest of emergencies. Worried, he picked up the phone.
“Sir, I have some bad news!” an urgent voice spoke on the other end.
“How is Manish?” Shyam asked instinctively. The other person seemed genuinely surprised at his reply.
“Sir, how come…you…”
“Shut up and tell me how is Manish?”
“Sir, I am sorry to say this, but he is no more. He was hit by a speeding car yesterday night while crossing the road.”
Shyam was too stunned to talk. Was it a déjà-vu? Or just a mere coincidence? If it were the latter, it was a very costly one.
“Sir, are you there?”
“Yes. Tell me, why didn’t anyone tell me about this yesterday?”
“The police hadn’t identified the body. They broke the news just now. The culpable car was from Gujarat, number GJ 1 HP 2334. The police were surprised to find a car from Gujarat in Delhi.”
Shyam was trembling. He felt the fine trickling of beads of sweat down his back, inspite of full air-conditioning.
“The police tracked down the driver, who confessed that he was driving under the influence of alcohol…” Shyam cut the phone, held his head in his hands and sat down on his bed.
If it had been this single incident, Shyam would have gladly shrugged it as a coincidence. But gradually, he saw that most of his early morning dreams were getting true. He tried to think of happy thoughts before going to sleep, hoping for some good, happy dreams. Sometimes he succeeded. Other times, he was too afraid to remember what he had seen. People try to live their dreams. Shyam died every day fearing his would come true.
He woke up sweating that day. This was not one of his usual nightmares, but something far worse.
He sees a gun. Its nozzle is pointed at the temple of an unseen person. The index finger squeezes the trigger slowly. It trembles a little, but the firm resolve is evident in the contracted muscles. And then, the trigger is pressed. There is a loud clamor and the then a blood spattered face is seen. The face, as does the blood, belongs to the Chairman of Ace industries, among the richest men in the country, and on the Forbes’ list. He also sees the hand that held the gun, and a ring with two alphabets engraved on it-‘SM’.
Shyam filled a glass of water and drank it in a gulp. It did little to ease his stress-induced tachycardia. As he lifted the glass towards his lips, he saw the ring with ‘SM’ inscribed on it. It was given by his lovely wife Meera. He started trembling from a fear he had never known. The hands which could not kill a fly were destined to kill a person. Or were they? Only time would tell. Shyam’s dreams would come true within 24 hours, and the deadline had started, literally.
“Suhani,” he called his new secretary and said, “I want guards from a private security agency around me for 24 hours,” then he raised his hand to stop Suhani when she started asking why, and continued, “Don’t ask me why. It’s a matter of life and death of the most important person of the country.” Suhani knew better than to question further. One of her biggest assets was that she knew when to keep quiet and when to spread disquiet. It made her perfect for her secretarial job. Her efficiency was unparalleled in the office and its evidence was visible when a uniformed security guard presented himself to the office’s doors. Shyam allowed him to walk into his cabin.
“What’s your name?”
“Vishal. Vishal Singh.”
“Listen Vishal, I will employ you for only one day. Don’t worry, if you carry out your duty successfully, you’ll receive payments equivalent to a month’s salary. If you fail, you won’t find anyone to collect the money from.” The instructions were crisp, lucid and clear. Shyam needn’t have said anything more. Vishal was intelligent enough to know what the man in front of him meant. But he wasn’t the least prepared for what Shyam explained him to do. Normally he was used to protecting people from dangers. This case was intriguing at its best and dangerous at its worst.
“Vishal,” Shyam said gravely, “I want you to be with me throughout these 24 hours and ensure that I do not lay my hands on any weapon. I know it’s a strange request, but the life of the Prime minister of India is at stake.” Vishal did not seek further information. He stamped his right foot on the ground and saluted Shyam saying, “Yes sir!”
There was a knock on the door. “Come in”, Shyam said in a stern voice. His throat betrayed the tumult in his head. Suhani walked in with a few files. Vishal ogled at her behind as she walked back, but on seeing Shyam’s frown from the corner of his eye, he looked down, embarrassed.
“Can’t you keep your eyes under control?” Shyam asked sternly.
“Sorry sir. Old habits die hard!”
“Learn to curb them, for someday old habits can be deadly.” Vishal let this comment pass.
Sometimes, hours may pass unnoticed, and sometimes each moment may seem excruciating. Shyam felt something similar as the second-hand of the clock ticked slowly across, swiping across the face of the clock, wiping it clean every minute and replacing it with a fresh bout of fear for Shyam. Vishal, on his part, kept strict vigil. He had even asked Shyam to get rid of all sharp instruments, which included even his pens. For the safety of his own life, he decided that certain papers can wait for his signature.
Fear. The emotion which strips one bare, naked in front of self. The creeping monster which corrodes the soul, and renders the person hollow. Fear. Shyam felt the same monster creeping upon him, trickling down his back, dripping down his brow. He tried to wipe it away, but could not keep it away from crippling his spine. His hands shook even when he sipped water from the glass, even when he called his wife to inform that he would be staying in the office till the next day morning.
Thus passed the day, without any incident. Nobody got hurt from Shyam’s hands. Vishal on his part, stayed alert throughout, his eyes not blinking a bit. As the clock struck 5 in the morning, thereby completing the twenty-four hour period since Shyam saw that cursed dream, it was time, he decided, to leave for his home. Vishal drove him home. As he reached home, Shyam knocked the door of his home. His daughter opened it.
“Oh dad! What kept you out till so late?”
“Manisha, I was busy with some work.”
“Some work? Oh really!” Manisha laughed as she let Shyam in. As he walked in, he never noticed Vishal staring at Manisha from the angle of his eye while receiving the money. How much would he repent missing this vital link of eye later on!
As Shyam was working though his files the next day, a phone call jarred his attention.
“Shyam! Come home fast!” the voice from the other end shrieked. It was his wife.
“What happened?” Shyam asked, worried.
“Manisha, our Manisha…” Shyam’s wife cut the phone mid way. It was enough to make him dash through the office. As he sat down in his car, he called Vishal’s number, but his call didn’t go through. As he reached home, he dashed through the door and saw a sight which would have made a weaker man faint. On the floor lay his daughter, naked, except for two clothes on her private parts for dignity, and a pool of blood around her. In the now-congealed blood, somebody had crawled with a finger ‘VISHAL’. It was enough for Shyam to grasp the situation. Forensic reports only confirmed what Shyam had guessed. There were Vishal’s fingerprints all over Manisha’s body. It took just one call from Shyam to the Police Commissioner, and his close friend, to catch Vishal. And it took the Delhi police just over an hour to wriggle out the confession from him. He confessed that it was he who had silently entered Shyam’s home, caught hold of Manisha and had raped her repeatedly, before killing her by slitting her wrists. Shyam asked for a revolver from the police. Without further questioning, he was handed one. He placed the nozzle between Vishal’s eyes and pulled the trigger. The devil incarnate went down in a spurt of blood. Shyam pocketed the gun and walked away. Reaching his home, he had a look at the place where his daughter lay covered in nothing but a pool of blood. Testing his luck, he removed four of the remaining five bullets, revolved the cylinder for a long time, put the nozzle at his temple. The index finger squeezes the trigger slowly. It trembles a little, but the firm resolve is evident in the contracted muscles. And then, the trigger is pressed. There is a loud clamor and the then a blood spattered face is seen. The next day, the whole nation was in shock over the suicide of Mr. Shyam Saxena, the Chairman of Ace Industries, and among the richest men in the world with his name in every Forbes’ list. The reason for his suicide was kept tightly under wraps.
Shyam’s dream became true more than twenty-four hours after he saw it, breaking his own rule. But isn’t there an exception to every rule?
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Love you forever
Love you for inspiring this rhyme,
Love you for making me fall in love every time.
Love the way you talk,
love the way you smile
love the way it hold holds my heart
and stops it awhile.
Love your sound, oh, a wonderful chime
Love you for making me fall in love every time
Love you when you talk,
love your beautiful eyes
love the way it holds my mind
and makes me believe even your lies.
Not falling in love with you, a heinous crime
Love you for making me fall in love every time
Love to see you laugh,
love to see you cry
love to be the shoulder
on which your tears dry
Love the way you look so sublime
Love you for making me fall in love every time
Love you for making me fall in love every time.
Love the way you talk,
love the way you smile
love the way it hold holds my heart
and stops it awhile.
Love your sound, oh, a wonderful chime
Love you for making me fall in love every time
Love you when you talk,
love your beautiful eyes
love the way it holds my mind
and makes me believe even your lies.
Not falling in love with you, a heinous crime
Love you for making me fall in love every time
Love to see you laugh,
love to see you cry
love to be the shoulder
on which your tears dry
Love the way you look so sublime
Love you for making me fall in love every time
Saturday, March 19, 2011
The mask
Behind the mask, a false face thrives,
Behind the disguise, a hollow humanity survives.
A facade we show,
exhibit as our true selves,
built upon, hiding the edifice
that is truly our bare self.
Behind the mask, a false face thrives,
Behind the disguise, a hollow humanity survives.
The mask of laughter,
The mask of joy,
Some mask to unmask,
All mask to decoy.
Behind the mask, a false face thrives,
Behind the disguise, a hollow humanity survives.
A mask, well, is just that,
a covering, casing, wrapping on life,
Behind the mask, a false face thrives,
Behind the disguise, a hollow humanity survives.
Behind the disguise, a hollow humanity survives.
A facade we show,
exhibit as our true selves,
built upon, hiding the edifice
that is truly our bare self.
Behind the mask, a false face thrives,
Behind the disguise, a hollow humanity survives.
The mask of laughter,
The mask of joy,
Some mask to unmask,
All mask to decoy.
Behind the mask, a false face thrives,
Behind the disguise, a hollow humanity survives.
A mask, well, is just that,
a covering, casing, wrapping on life,
Behind the mask, a false face thrives,
Behind the disguise, a hollow humanity survives.
Friday, February 18, 2011
Noise
In the quiet of the grave,
a noxious noise makes me rave.
I dont hear a sound,
but within my mind, rages,
the world is still all around,
a malicious maelstorm unbound.
In the quiet of the grave,
a noxious noise makes me rave.
Some give me strange, silent stares,
others do not pay heed.
For they have the ear to not hear,
the rowing racket within.
In the quiet of the grave,
a noxious noise makes me rave.
It is not the a melody, mellifluous and musical,
A cacophony it is, croaky and coarse,
It jabs and bites, and laughs at me,
for it knows me more than myself.
In the quiet of the grave,
a noxious noise makes me rave.
At times i obey it, at times i mock,
but still it keeps shouting in defiance.
Scolding me, scoffing me and criticizing,
is my own acerbic conscience.
-Shivam
P.S The funny thing is, I wrote this poem in pin-drop silence! Not a sound anywhere!
a noxious noise makes me rave.
I dont hear a sound,
but within my mind, rages,
the world is still all around,
a malicious maelstorm unbound.
In the quiet of the grave,
a noxious noise makes me rave.
Some give me strange, silent stares,
others do not pay heed.
For they have the ear to not hear,
the rowing racket within.
In the quiet of the grave,
a noxious noise makes me rave.
It is not the a melody, mellifluous and musical,
A cacophony it is, croaky and coarse,
It jabs and bites, and laughs at me,
for it knows me more than myself.
In the quiet of the grave,
a noxious noise makes me rave.
At times i obey it, at times i mock,
but still it keeps shouting in defiance.
Scolding me, scoffing me and criticizing,
is my own acerbic conscience.
-Shivam
P.S The funny thing is, I wrote this poem in pin-drop silence! Not a sound anywhere!
I am strong
I am, I am so strong,
Never, never am I wrong.
Heartbreaks I have faced a dozen,
and yet my heart holds on,
Never has the world seen me cry,
for my tears i swallow, not roll down my eye.
And yet,
I am, I am so strong,
Never, never am I wrong.
My shoulders are, droopy,
bearing the woes and weights of the world
Sometimes, them I straighten and dry,
for I too need a shoulder to cry.
And yet,
I am, I am so strong,
Alas, never, never am I so wrong!
Never, never am I wrong.
Heartbreaks I have faced a dozen,
and yet my heart holds on,
Never has the world seen me cry,
for my tears i swallow, not roll down my eye.
And yet,
I am, I am so strong,
Never, never am I wrong.
My shoulders are, droopy,
bearing the woes and weights of the world
Sometimes, them I straighten and dry,
for I too need a shoulder to cry.
And yet,
I am, I am so strong,
Alas, never, never am I so wrong!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
