What follows a revolution
is even worse than before,
Because it stands on too much
blood, gore and violence
within a short time,
It’s a nasty kick on a pregnant belly,
Forcing a bloodied miscarriage,
It’s an immature strike
leading to a premature stillborn child,
If not for the violent kick,
there would have’n a healthy baby,--
a mature delivery
at an appropriate time.
We have limited
the idea of happiness and success
to a very few narrow paths,
Walking on these thin trajectories
some people become so inactive with life,
So much musty
in the staid, stale monotones
of what they do on a routine
without feeling any joy,
So much demure with life
that even dying seems an activity,
This is like death’s
petty household tyranny with life.
Walking on powdery sand
hiding many corpses
under its crumbling crust,
Saving the feet from coils of barbed wire,
Afraid of rifles
peeking from behind the sandbags,
Surrounded by countless bullet scars
on the walls,
Stared at by the corpses
of once lively houses and shops,
we walk in the bloodied maze of life.
We are a very scared, insecure species,
So to feel our fears with more depth,
the war zones we have to create,--
this vast scary game of violence and anger.
We carry immeasurable inherited sorrow,
The entire species dabbed with
the clammy colors of sorrow,
Plastic smiles we carry at the most,
And even this vanishes
just with the clicking latch on a
creaky door with complaining hinges,--
a trigger, a fuse for blasting the fears in us,
Ribbed and ridiculed
by the captivating madness,
we carry our cranky self
on the thin paths leading to
wars, strife, violence, blood and gore.
We believe we know a person
till some happening
finds us staring at a stranger,
All familiarity gone,
Because it’s hard to have a sense of
the vast expanses of the unknown
hidden inside a person.
You may have heard a million words
from a mouth,
but we are also full of
trillions of unspoken words,
You may have seen tons of smiles
on a charming face,
but these hide rivers of tears as well,
You are acquainted with love
but it swims like a thin layer of oil
on deep waters of hate and pain,
Beyond the familiar stale stimulation of
superfluous comfort,
there is a stealthy man-whore
prowling in the shadows of love,
Beyond the lovely musical whispers
emanating from beautiful lips,
maybe there is a scream
imprisoned in the curvy lithe body;
vibrating inside,
looking for a way out.
As you play at the level of body,
don't forget the pain locked inside the soul,--
the epicenter ready to unleash earthquake
upon the outer shell,
Because below the apparent stable crust
there are thrusting, shifting plates.
All of us have one primal need,
An emptiness, a deep desire,
A hole in the soul
that works as the core of our existence,
It fuels the impulse to live and exist,
It shapes our body, thoughts, emotions
like a pot maker
shapes wet earth on his wheel,
We spin to its force,
We bend, curve, mold
to the expertise of its hands,
This want or need is crystallized
with clarity in our soul’s pit,
Buried and hidden under
a thick, black cloak of confusion,
But below the rubble of what others see
this is the most real thing about us.
By giving your hate, lust, greed to me,
you can’t change, redefine, transform,
or undo what is essentially me.
The shower of your scorn off balances me,
That’s natural,
But I’m not a product of
what you do,
Yes, the bushfire of your lust
burns my luxuriant canopy,
But there are seeds under the ashes,--
the carriers of my legacy;
the seeded me;
the tiny container of my fundamental code.
It just takes some time
for the rains to wash away the ashes;
for the sun to kiss infant saplings,--
the little me pampered by mother nature,
And the small me will be a full me some day.
I’m inching closer to that reality
from the nightmare you’ve held me in;
from the prison of self-loath, anger, helplessness
to the beautiful grove of love and light.
Soiled with shame,
Scratching the crust of grief
on the skin
to make it a live wound,
most of us are not yet
ready to heal;
just not in acceptance
of the idea of healing and wellness.
