sometimes the truth is so simple it hurts


Sometimes the truth is so simple it hurts,
Because your mind wants to believe anything but,
Fabric the ways it could be happening,
The ways you let yourself conjure and create,
Sometimes wishing it we true just so you could breathe ‘I was right’,
Then knowing you’d never want that wish to come true.

Sometime the truth is simple,
Laid out before us in reason and logic,
Leaving no room for your mind to intervene,
But it’s not you mind you’re worried about,
It’s your emotional heart and the nasty things anxiety makes up,
Sometimes the truth is laid before you with nothing to intervene,
Yet you still manage to find ways to match it to your own truth.

Sometimes the truth is simply the truth,
And what you make of it,
Take your truth and make it your own
Stick to it so no other may shake your core,
Because sometimes the truth is so simple it hurts.

Picture by Daniil Kuzelev (Unsplash)

RELATIVE yEARS

We toasted our first year with glasses of tap water
And discussed our plans at length.
We marked our calendar
And wrote down other particulars in our diaries –
Height, weight, Color of eyes at dusk,
The number of finger-steps from your breast to belly button…

You started losing pages
From your loose-bound diary from the second year.
We measured the duration we could stare into the others’ eyes
And made plans to make rose wine.

A very long monsoon set in the third year
It stayed till year five!
You lost a few more pages from your diary
When the river beneath our bed overflowed.
I started to grow a small rose bush.

Fourth year saw our room damp and we burned frankincense.
Small dots of mould grew on the my specks
We skipped breakfast and ate a lot of eggs.
You purchased a new diary –
Meanwhile my roses thrived!

You were away, a lot, the fifth year.
We met in between weekends and beds –
Sometimes between moonset and dawn.
I made the wine mixture and stored it in ceramic jars.

The rains stopped the next year
And you were home a lot more –
We kept bumping into each other
And used the word excuse-me extensively.
We threw out the old bed; bought a new one –
And started to miss the old one soon afterwards.

The seventh year we sipped from the aging wine.
We made short toasts and sat down to long breakfasts
We gazed at each other over plates of pretty poached eggs –
The dark glassy spot in your pupils,
Where once I saw my face was now hidden by
Yellowing dots of drying mould on my specs
While you stared at a bee
Ruminating on my left glass frame; preparing to fly soon.

We had forgotten to turn the calendar
still set on a day seven years ago.

Picture by Eric Rothermel (Unsplash)

Oblivion


Will you forget?
You ask.

Haven’t you?
Already?
All the things we had, all the things we dreamt to be?
But I don’t really say all that.
I look into your eyes.
All I see, is fear. Fear of not being so loved.
Fear of not finding love again.
More so of not being given attention to.

You see,
Memories have been made.
Soon this conversation will be a memory too.
It depends on you, if you want to keep them alive.
Alive?
Our promises?
I’m asking far too much, ain’t I?
You hold me,
In your arms.
Cold heart, but warm arms.
It feels like walking on hot sand,
And freezing your fingers.
You whisper,
It’s going to be okay
I’ll be gone
You won’t remember any of this.

I smile.
Trying to convince me or yourself?
Tell me now,
Tell me quick.
Will you? Forget it all?

I feel your hands turning cold
And my fingers becoming numb.
I ask you,
Should I?
You look at me
Not really surprised,
Smile, as your tears roll down your cheeks.
And whisper,
Oh, I love you!
Damn.
I rephrase my question now,
Shall I?

Picture by Alice Alinari (Unsplash)

Burn Out

Simmer down.
What burns bright,
Burns out.

Ablaze and intolerant;
Nothing survives its wrath.

From places afar,
It’s light invites,
Those escaping morbid winters.

Frost and darkness,
Take many lives,
And those who still survive,
Travel to any emerging light.

They arrive,
And accept heat and shelter,
Heap praise over fires,
Burning bright,
In the middle of unforgiving nights.

In its comfort,
They rest.
Lay down their guard;
They close their eyes;
And never open them again,
To see the winter end.

Before the night,
Welcomes dawn,
The fire engulfs,
It’s grateful patrons.

In their sleep,
They are taken.

It’s victims,
Fuels it.
And so, it remains ablaze,
Luring more fleeing,
Captives of winter.

So, stay away from luring lights,
Build your own fires,
Survive the winter,
Not just solitary nights.

And soon,
The demon,
Will simmer down,
Burn bright
And then Burn out.

Picture by Maria Pop (Unsplash)

Souls on Fire

Cigarettes is a subject that often interests me and I cannot help but write about them. I don’t hate smokers infact, I envy them. This was written with no moral principle, but just a creative attempt on understanding love for smoking.

Hush, don’t speak

Succumb to me, I’ll last more than a week
I’ll make you cry
I’ll provoke you to try

Breath in this temporary solace
There’s nothing you can’t face.
I subtly usher
You see, we’re meant to be together.

In your fingers, I’m an ardent resident
Tasting your lips, hardly reluctant.
I make you turn a blind eye
To the lackluster in truths; hear the lies

I see an anomaly
In you, with love unmatched by none.
Darling, I’m a sanctuary,
Maybe a mistake too, which can’t be undone.

In this pursuit of happiness
I would still choose to be a barrage
For you and I will last forever,
When there’s nothing left to sabotage.


– a cigarette’s diary.

Picture by Mathew Macquarrie (Unsplash)

 

Different


It was the 4th of May,
No the 5th,

And the sun was bright;
The grass was green;
A Sinatra song was playing,
In the radio.

She rolled in,
In a car with lights.
First they came out,
And then she followed.

The day was still bright,
The grass was still green,
And Frank was still singing,
But she was different.

Mellow words,
Almost spoken in whispers.

Actions bereft of subtlty,
And unhidden tears.

Everything happened on egg shells,
Soft and with caution.

There were moments,
When we didn’t think of yesterday,
And we couldn’t care less,
Of the next day.

In these moments,
We let out laughter,
We were unashamed to smile,
To do the things,
We use to do.

But they were just moments.

And then she left.
It hurt less than it was meant to.

Maybe, she wasn’t who,
I fell in love with,
There wasn’t that energy,
That spark,
That electricity,
That made many an idle night,
The best ones we had ever had.

She was different.

Or maybe,
That summer day,
When the sun was bright,
And the grass green,
When she walked out of,
A car with lights,

I was different.

Picture by Toimetaja Tolkebur (Unsplash)

Drop


I’ve lost count.
Drop!
There one more,
Adds to what dropped before.

Knock!
Someone opens the door,
And another story is told.
My shoulder,
They hold.
Listen, speak
And repeat once more.

Day break!
Empty room,
Only to realise,
Its afternoon.

Bed cover clutched,
Eyes shut,
Day wasted!

Sleep then eat,
Bus Stop;
Workplace;
Show face;
And dusk again.

Random words,
Script
Empty thoughts,
Pain, Pain, Pain,
Stained shirts,
And there they,
Drop again!

Picture by Levi Xu (Unsplash)

Insomnia

This was written on an insomniac night, when words were trying to make sense, and the night was just too gentle, I would say. It is probably one of my first poems in my searching-for-meaning-in-life phase.

Thoughts, mostly intriguing.

They occur only during the nights especially when there’s a connection within yourself that you embrace yet suppress.

Thoughts, mostly unapologetic.
You’re wide awake, thirsty, for water or for some peace? Or maybe both. You get up to get a glass of water. Your legs fall weak. You get back to staring at the still curtains.
Thoughts, mostly hindered.
There’s a familiar tune that sings to the rhythm of your heartbeat, but you’re wide awake thinking should I dance to that?
Thoughts, mostly dangerous.
What if I didn’t know how to dance?
What if there is no rhythm?
And that simple “what if” keeps you awake till the sun shines its bright rays on your face. Perhaps a little too bright.

Picture by Megan Te Boekhor (Unsplash)

 

Living


Waking up on the back seat,
Of a saturn car,
Knowing, I had some dreams left in me;
Believing this road is where,
I was meant to be;
And singing a song,
That was playing long before,
I was born;
Country roads,
With folds,
Were bringing to my destiny.

Memories were being made,
And left to be remembered,
By those who will remember them,
Long after I am dead and gone.

And just as the song ended,
And the we drove through another fold,
Destiny arrived.

She spoke without words,
And told me,
Drive and dream,
Your destination is your journey,
And maybe,
Your journey,
Is not what you thought it was meant to be.

It was just like that song,
Better, when who sung it was gone.

Picture by John Canelis (Unsplash)