Rising Again

My nights, when not spent in hurriedly studying for the exams, or used up sleeping due to the college routine, are often utilized in thinking and imagining fantastic things; which is why my mother often calls me an 'old aunt', i guess. But as long as talking and imagining help me solve the everyday problems without rousing a suspicion of me being a lunatic, i guess i will let that continue! 

Here is a poem, coincidentally very much apt for posting here on this blog after such a long break.

Rising Again

I  know;
The moment before, and the moment
after I whisper the deafening words
will be the moment i face death
and revive again.

I imagine the contours of your face
change,in amusement;
the realization of truth will change them to shock.
And disgust, I am afraid.
I try to tread gently,
but trip over my own tears,
while my hands tear at my hair.

I am afraid I have thought too much,
and need to rest now.

Pray, when the moment finally arrives,
listen to my cries once, kiss me,
and then push me away.
I know
I will smile and lie down,
right there,
when you have satisfied
your curiosity
and spewed all your amazement.
I will smile at your inability to lie.

And i know too,
that the icy marble of my room
will make me sleep better
than the silken blankets.

I will awaken to rise up then,
and not step down.

SO I WRITE.

Ah! It has been so long since I put any of my thoughts on paper, or any idea here. A writer's bloc, perhaps! But that got me thinking, days and nights, and i could not stop my self from finally picking up a pen and a paper. And then typing it up!

Once again,

after what feels like ages,

I am searching for a rhythm,

a rhyme

in my words.

Afraid of being labelled,

again,

a ‘post-modernist’,

I wonder if my words

are worth the risk.

I remember, you raised an eyebrow,

with a curious smile,

that day,

and asked why I had not

written for a while.

I looked away.

Today, what do I say?

That I am not so sure,

anymore?

That my words fail

to make sense to my own father?

Then why would the World,

my friend,

not mock me, flick me away?

Whatever can I accomplish

Anyway?

And, now

as my pen quivers,

flows and leaves a puddle

of ink at a point,

I know why I write.

Semi-conscious dreams

all these nights..

Let them see, and call me a fool.

My mind twitches, bursts with hope.

The words spill, and the ink seeps in, dries.

MUSINGS

For all the things I haven't learned yet...

Nineteen years of my life;

What have I done yet?

Just a speck in the ocean, eh?

A voice booms in my head.

Is this all that I am, then?

I picture my life, detached.

No miracle, no discovery,

Nothing outside my nest, alas!

So many books yet to be read,

So many songs to be sung.

Wind, water, food unexplored,

Unseen millions to spread smiles among.

A silken voice then whispers,

The seed has flowered in here.                      

You found the treasure in your friends,

Walk with them, well you will fare!

Endless books, ceaseless melodies,

Tastes and miracles boundless.

Do your share, as all would, all

Drops identical, but each, priceless!