I was convinced that if I wrote a bit more
my skin will turn into the golden sand
that lines the beach that I write of,
that I can finally dig into myself
without anyone’s help,
without anyone’s love,
and find something of value in myself.
But when I reached that shore and I saw that sky
I forgot to dig, to look for myself.
I sat there and thought
‘I am lucky to see this beautiful sky’.
I think it was fortunate (and surprising)
that I didn’t ruin that moment, that feeling
just for the sake of finding myself.
Do not scribble thoughtlessly
your name on these walls.
Don’t make yourself at home
if you don’t plan to stay.
I am not someone who has learnt to let go
of anything I value.
I am not someone who will close my heart
only because it hurts.
I wear my insanity in glittering colors
and that is how I will be even after I die.
So before you take my hand
and tell me the words you have told
to a thousand girls before,
know that though I am not crazy enough
to ruin your life if you leave,
but I am crazy enough to ruin mine
and my misery and my pain
will make your heart bleed.
(I turn out to be pretty lovable
even when I don’t look like it.)
There is a reason I don’t speak much.
There is a reason I keep my distance-
it is to save this world from few more sad poems.
I travel from exhilaration to distress, to new deaths
in matter of minutes,
don’t take my hand
if you can’t tag along.
I tell myself again and again
what it is that I really want
as I force myself to sit there and listen to every word
that diminishes the efforts I have put in my dream.
It makes me feel strong and pathetic at the same time,
that my wanting too little
could also be something that I must be criticized for,
something I must apologize for.
They force in their way into my mind
and take away every picture, every memory that exists
not for my happiness, not as a proof of my life
but a reminder, a reason for me to forgive and let go
of all the hurtful words that my dear ones
speak at me casually in the name of care.
I beg and cry inside,
outside I look unbothered.
I resort to everything,
anything to postpone this dismantling and rating of my life
even by a day.
I tell myself again and again
I can bear this
but I don’t think I can.
Every morning I convince myself
that all I do will make sense to them someday.
But will it really?
I do not have one person who believes in me,
in what I am capable of.
How long, how far can I walk
only by the strength of a delusional value and importance
that only I can attribute to myself.
What I find sad about people
is that they do not know how to value something
without looking down on everything else.
What irritates me more
that this attitude is celebrated in a way
that makes everyone want to adopt it
just to look like a person with strong opinion.
Fortunately, I do not have any strong opinion
when I say this-
All the things we couldn’t understand,
the books and text we once mugged up
and find no use in life right now,
were not necessarily useless.
People whom we didn’t get along with
were not necessarily bad.
Everything need not appeal to my sensibilities.
I do not have to mock dreams and interests of others
in order to pursue mine.
I would hate a world
set to match the preference of only one
even if it is my own.
With marker I scribble on the mirror
the list of complains I have from you,
not caring if they mess up my own reflection.
Sometimes thankful that under that I can hide my own
obsession with what people will think of me,
how much will they value based on the value you give me.
An obsession I cannot really admit I have.
After all I am supposed to just ask for what I want
and not what everyone tells me I should want and I should have.
But are my wants really immune from the template of dreams
that world sets apart for people like us.
When I sit surrounded by chatter
I remember how I had to seal my lips,
had to come up with stories more acceptable than
the vague transitions of my life and my heart
from one state to another.
Even if I put on songs of love and think of you
I am just presented with all that I am waiting to receive from you.
(Does that make me greedy or calculating?)
But somehow I always bring myself around to the life I must live
that would be easy to live
if I didn’t compare myself to others,
if it was easy to turn your back to the the judging eyes
especially the one being judged is not only you
but also the object of your affection.