Sunday, 21 June 2015

The poem that will always be under construction

There is still so much growing up to do.

Like learning how not to be disappointed
By my handwriting on the first page
Of a brand new diary.

And loving myself when a new pimple
Pops up on the nose (maybe the pimple too)
And how the hair gets all messy after sleep.

Looking inside to find the courage to finally
Empathize with the people I love too much
But am often reckless with.

Like how to express feelings for which
There are no right words, and to say the right
words when there are no feelings at all.

To become friends with the shadow that lurks
Behind, scaring and warning me of who I am
And what I could become.

Learn how to let a word seep into my bones
And let it run through my nerves and veins
Without feeling the need to tattoo it.

And how not to judge the first bencher
Sitting and making notes in a boring class,
Asking questions as I stare at her from far behind.

There is still so much growing up to do
Before the dust rises again and I begin to forget
All that I had learnt when I was growing up.

Thursday, 18 June 2015

The Death of a Tree

He died so young, they say; how unfortunate, they say;
Such a time consuming affair, the cars slow down in front
Of his open casket, paying homage, their cries sound like horns
And the sky weeps rain, and the wind runs wild
Offering comfort to the trees nearby, families and friends
Of the one who lost his life; he died so young, they say
Swept off by a storm, somebody needs to teach these kids
To stay strong, to keep their roots firm, to hold on to their ground;
The college students walk by, with him they shared the shade on a
Sunny day, the first kiss, the smoke of a cigarette, the weeping
On a call; the shower makes it hard to see their tears today;
He died so young, they say, but he smells like the first time
His leaves were born; he looks like he’s finally fallen asleep
After a tiring day at work; he died so young, they say
But I can’t stop thinking about the bird who lost its home
At such a young age.

Thursday, 4 June 2015

It is time to pack and say goodbye
But all I want to do is refill my now empty Almira
Back again, so I sit inside it
Trying to fill this hollowness I feel.

It is time to pack and say goodbye
But can there ever be enough bags
To record the magical laughter of the people I’ve met?
Of randomly opening up to complete strangers
As we sit and talk under the stars?
Can a bag ever hold all the warmth I’ve received
In libraries, while crossing paths, and during
Awkward bathroom conversations?
Who can ever express the feeling of being in love
With people, sometimes without
Even having spoken to them enough?

It is time to pack and say goodbye
And the fuller each bag looks
The emptier I get inside.

Is there a bag somewhere that has stored
All the hair I have given up,
All the inhibitions I’ve lost
All the fears that scare me no more?
Is there a bag with moments of songs
And crying, chocolates, and colorful festivals.

Where do all these go?
These magical moments
That vanish in the blink of an eye?
Who gets to keep this part of my life?

I remind myself that it is time to pack
And say goodbye
But there are still
So many hugs to give
How can I just say goodbye?