Just another WordPress.com site
There are bouts of tears,
phone calls,
consolation, advice,
and it ends.
The river stops
and flows again.
There are missed calls, busy tone,
letters never penned,
the sky
that didn’t shatter like glass.
The river stops
and flows again.
There is me,
there is you,
there are our days together
and the days we will never have.
Nothing ends
even if I break.
The river stops
and flows again,
even if I lose
my last breath,
my last love to it.
Excuses are futile, reasons unnecessary.
You may have sad story
but who doesn’t.
I don’t want to know what you went through.
I don’t want to melt my indifference and disregard
and become the only character who suffers for their understanding.
I don’t want to be that lone person
who considers even small actions
so that the ones who are already hurt,
don’t break on their watch,
don’t die on them.
*****
But it is difficult to be kind
to the ones who end up living for their pain,
who think their pain makes them special,
who would do anything to keep their status of
the ones needing protection.
It is tiring to continuously ache for others.
It is tiring to see everyone walking back to their mistake
in the name of love, in the name of passion.
Don’t tell me about your sadness and worries.
Don’t ask me for support and advice.
I cannot forgive those who return to the normality of their hell
leaving me as the only one
who should have known better than to help those
who can’t make up their mind.
The fear that leaves our heart,
at some point,
does it make its way back to us?
Does it still look like our nightmare when it returns?
Do we still look away when it moves closer to us?
Do we close our eyes again on the horrid memories,
the alienation and the helplessness?
And let it erase all the instructions
of avoidance, of the hints of bitterness that must be remembered
for us to live well and choose better,
and all such advices we had written on our heart
on the gravestone of the memories that refused to stay still,
that refused to be silent
till we felt it’s last breath pass into the same pillows
we buried our complains.
Do we let ourselves believe in goodness of hearts ,
in the excuses of the ones who broke us?
I hope not.
When my own opinions can’t budge the doors
that are closed on my face,
I run back to these books
which list how to think, what to want.
I do not look for how it is done
I look for what I did wrong.
But my mind is so immune to a good advise
that the words that I read make me sick
even when they could be my medicine.
But I don’t yet know if they are,
cause my wish for a better life fades away
in front of the genuineness my heart demands from me.
I have stacks and heaps of poems I have misread.
Where I filled the blanks
which were not meant to be filled.
Where I was supposed to stand stupefied by absurdity of life
I tried to find some order , some reason.
Where I was supposed to sit and listen to worries
I gave advice.Or worse, interfered in lives not mine.
It was always about what I could give to life,
than what life has given to me.
So I have suffered long
trying to fill silences in heart
and words in blank pages.
And never to have made a difference.
Never to have known the beauty
of being incomplete and unfinished.
it rains in my heart 