Life Itself

Skip the introduction Move quickly to the next Ignore the contradiction Capture, don't suggest.  Hold onto my attention  React to every threat Mimic my imagination Offer, don't expect.  Recognize the transition Rush as you interpret Track each movement Watch, don't correct.  Sense the nearing end Lay down the last bet  Close with precision  Leave and forget. 

I grew up as an optimistic, confident, paranoid girl. I was paranoid about death, ghosts, men, accidents, thunderstorms, flights, new places, new people, snakes, insects, failure. I was scared of so many things that fear itself scared me. So I learnt to deal with it. I am twenty one, still paranoid, still confident. 

Lately a lot of people have asked me why I only post poetry on my blog. Each time I simply list out the advantages of ambiguity and abstraction. People always buy my argument.  But is that really it? Is abstraction really that important to me? Do I really need to hide behind vagueness? Also, isn't poetry specific enough to make me just as vulnerable? Perhaps it is. Then what is it that keeps me from posting my daily rants on this blog? Honestly, there is no real reason and laziness would qualify just as much as fear.  So today I am going to make an exception. I am going to write freely, without confining my thoughts to the structure of rhythm and meter. Today I am going to write just because writing makes me happy and releases the captive emotions that I so cleverly hide.  ______________________________________________________________ Love Poem As I sat there watching her rummage through her cupboard, find her things, throw them in a bag and walk out with my hand ...

You are a color on the horizon  sharp, diffused. You are a whisper in my silence heard, refused.  You are a shadow on the rearview cherished, used. You are a fraction of my deception mollycoddled, abused.

And then he turns to her… “Save me”, he says. [Is thunder enough to shake her? Or does she need the rain? She told him it’s all over, Then why did he turn again??] She looks at him, And asks herself “Why?” [Friends don’t kill each other Then why did she let him die?] Tears stream down Crying for him Crying for her Is there anyone to blame? Sorrow erases sorrow And pain soothes pain He holds her hand in his She firmly pulls it away. “It’s over”, she repeats, Loud and clear. Can relief be enough reason?? Can love sway? [Yes, she did love him deeply But it faded away.] He looks at her And weeps And with each drop Her soul: hardening This is the last goodbye. Her joy His grief [What grows together… Doesn’t always die in oneness… It’s a sad picture Sorrow begging, misery] She turns He turns Knowing so well They may never meet But in their hearts She knows He feels There is never a goodbye. Every tear they cry, Will heal.

In my mothers womb I heard a voice talk Unlike other infants And to my mothers wrath, It was my father sharing Many of his thoughts. One day about a prince The other day about some frogs But the best was only one The one told everyday About dolls and frocks. As I grew from womb to school He taught me how to dance How to spell my name How to walk Everything…. [Memory fades away] Then one night as I slept I heard him softly walk away I pretended to be asleep And he preferred it that way I guess he was scared Scared, I would blame. I never stopped him And he never stayed We slowly grew apart And things began to change I learned to live without him To dance my own way I even learned to write Though our style's grew astray Then one day 15 years from the last in womb I sent him a poem I wanted to know what he thought If he thought I could rhyme A year passed And no reply I gave up But continued to write. 4th of June: Today I opened ...

Furious thoughts unevenly spread Scribble, scribble quibble, quibble Addicted Dipped in ink Inspiration flowing Attended, passed. One idea, Then another instead. Using, abusing Ranting ahead Jotting, blotting Said, still unsaid Cross out Write again Frustrated, determined Driven, insane Crush the paper Throw away the pen Words knifed across the arm Hate inscribed and left to interpret Deed done Life lost A final word and at it, left