Woman: A Selfless Human

In an era where we believe in gender equality, we still deprive to pay women the respect that they deserve sometimes. This poem deals with the feelings of a woman searching for equality while describing her qualities that make her deserve it.

People call me a woman,
another word for a selfless human.
We love as sisters and sacrifice as mothers,
Offer our lives without any thought to others.

Beautiful, that’s not the only thing we are,
Yet some people mistake it as our only power.
We might seem powerless but are fierce inside,
Don’t underestimate us, we can be a sweet looking cyanide.

We are like a flower,
nurture the world under our unvalued bower.
We bloom and droop and bloom again,
to complete our only aim, of love to sustain.

We are angels from heaven, came to make the earth brighter,
struggle throughout our lives, aren’t we true fighters?
We may be tender but not that easy to break,
Judging us as frail is a man’s biggest mistake.

Everytime you break us, we join ourselves back,
One day we’ll rise silently to retaliate and attack.
We are a precious gem, a true treasure,
Don’t hurt us, loving us will be a pleasure.

All we need from you is recognition and respect,
treat us equally or is that too much to expect?
Come under our shelter of love and you’ll be safe forever,
for when it comes to protection, we are very clever.

Yes, I am a proud woman,
another word for a selfless human.


Picture by Sean K.Q (Unsplash)

Night Time!

Switches go on,
And fluorescence fills rooms,
Night time is here.

Tickets bought,
Trains and buses boarded,
Cigarettes lit,
And its time,
For a journey, back home.

Empty stomachs await,
Freshly cooked meals,
Tired bodies seek,
Soft sheets and even softer pillows.

Kisses exchanged,
Pleasantries follow.
It’s the end of a day.

But why is it still dark,
Despite fluorescent lights?
Why do feet,
Seek no journey?
Why is an empty stomach,
Not yearning food?
Why are there no cravings,
For sheets and pillows alike?
And pleasantries,
It takes two to tango.
The truth,
I didn’t get out of bed today.

Picture by Biel Morro (Unsplash)

The Winter of Life

Let’s walk through the relation between the solitude of winters and old age, the desire to become young again, to regain the energy winter lacks and wait for summer to arrive through this poem.

The sky was determined to exhibit its cold rage,
white polka dots fell over the damp sky.
Bringing with them a tinch of solitude and imprisonment.
Chilly winds etched my heart with cold numbness.

The evil winds chain danced, engulfing me,
as my body shivered and goosebumps rose to fight.
Like old door hinges, my knee joints cracked,
every young soul now trapped inside with a feeling of imprisonment.

The fire sang a crackle in its rage to fight,
restoring the charming chirps of birds.
With fogged up glasses sipping hot coffee,
Wearing jackets I sat in my young old age, trying to find the person inside.

To wave my dad a bye, I rushed towards the window,
Fog can separate even the closest, I just realized.
Fake santas dominated December with their HO!HO!HO!
While young gullible minds expected an angel to arrive.

O sun I beg you to return from your exile,
Show me some light when with darkness I fight.
Provide me with warmth, wake my spirit,
To enlighten the youth and energy that winters deprive!


Picture by Adam Chang (Unsplash)

A love letter to my Parents

They fold,
Wither and drop dead;
Having lost colour;
Leaves fall,
And it’s the end of summer.

But trees stand,
Firm and sturdy.
North winds and storms;
Scorching heat,
While on barren lands,
And yet they are given,
A chance to stand.

Buried and away from plain sight,
Stretching past obstacles
Into underground trenches,
To find solitary streams of water;
Or to bury their foundations deep enough,
To hold what stands above,
Upright and strong.
These are roots.

Count them even when,
You bear fruit.

Picture by Jeremy Bishop (Unsplash)

The Warm Chill

It’s a snowy night and the road are padded in soft white. My coat is wrapped tightly around me as I blow small clouds into the night air. I wait for the tram to come my way, for home awaits. And as I think of home, I think of her. Indeed, there is a warm chill to this night.

Winds of Change

I’ve packed my bags and said my farewells. This town has been kind to me for many years, but there’s nothing left for me here. I get ready to leave, wearing my helmet and checking the fuel. As I start the bike, I feel a slight breeze, I feel the winds of change.