Mostly, we are viewing ourselves
in terms of what we are not
and what we couldn’t become,
In this way,
we are simply repulsing life,
We deny our very own little reality,
our existence,
our life,
our twinkling little puddle
under the starlight,
We ignore the wild flowers
that offer consolation
if we had given them a little bit
more than a cursory look.
The conveyor belt of pain
carrying the weighty stones of despair,
The bond of happiness dry and dead,
Soul aching with sorrow, anger, even guilt,
Body’s cells colonized by fear,
Going alone and forlorn,
Feeling resentment against a world
where everyone seemed to have worked out
how to be successful and happy,
Everyone except himself.
Slowly receding from all possibilities of life,
Silently stepping into the pool of non-existence,
Taking a revenge against life
by retreating from its false promise,--
the lollipop of hope,
Presuming life had been repulsing him
by burning and charring his aspirations
not only of fame and grandeur, but even
the little things that come naturally to everyone
whether they seek these or not.
His eyes like tall arched windows,
Face like a weather-beaten, mossy stone façade,
Body like an ancient battered brick structure,
A shattered star being sucked by a black hole,
Utterly frightened of life,
while all along he imagined
himself to be scared of death,
Haunted by the feeling of being incomplete,
Full of regrets for not being able to
welcome life as one should,
And that in a way
was an invitation to death.
Regrets constantly chiming in his chest,
The chances he squandered brimming his mind,
clouding him,
turning him blind to
the options and choices that had been beckoning,
trying to draw his attention.
Now, to forget the fear of life,
he decides to die.
A suicide.
A shameful exit.
Life can be tricky,
if even about the simplest issues
you are too frisky,
Prudence is to be at ease
with situations and time,
Complications then wouldn't chime,
And days would pass like a free rhyme!
We are not a mistake
to be corrected,
We are just humans
on our correct path;
just needing sometimes
kind, loving, caring words
from our fellow travelers.
The sad musings of a lone pine on a weather beaten ridge:
Where have the birds gone?
Too many of them used to roam
the sky over my head,
And play, love and make nest
at their joyous best
among branches mine,
Now my pine's soul doth pine,
Yesterday, I saw a bird couple too sad,
Are many of them dead?
I ought not have a sad tear in my eye,
Nor a pining heart's sigh,
My roots are now the soil
that fuels the fresh leaves' toil
for new smiles and fragrance,
Much of what was once above
is alive now below!
Past and future
are parasitic in temperament,
Always seek to expand, grow and stretch
beyond reality,
beyond practical limits.
The poor ‘present’ is a casualty,
It’s like a pointed peak,--
small but high, lofty, uplifting
where the upslope of future
and the downslope of past meet,
intersect and forget their tension momentarily,
And that’s when we actually live.
In childhood, we’ve more of ‘present’
and hence we’re lively,
The youth’s a run for the future,
As we walk, we leave behind a trail
and future shrinks,
past stretches,
There comes a point
when all we’ve is the ‘past’
in our old bones, dimmed eyes,
Again we arrive
at a phase of dulled, dimmed present,
Just a grave to look forward to;
few surviving memories
in the tiny vanishing puddle of life,
mired in mud,--
a few fishes flapping sometimes,
The past meaningless
and the present
almost a curiosity about death.
