#7: Without my voice

I can't speak

For me, that's a relief 

For all that seemed to come out when I spoke

Were a series of  "I shoulds" and "I shouldn'ts"

Each declaration - an ask too tall 

For my dreams and desires to scale.

And all that my words created was 

A monstrous, formidable dam 

Where there should've been a flowing river. 

I can't speak 

For you, that must be a relief 

For all you seemed to hear 

Were "you don'ts" and "why don't yous" 

Far outweighing the I love yous,

My questions just rhetorics 

Blocking any hope of reconciliation .

And all that my words created was

A fence of twisted barbed wire 

Where there should've been a park bench. 

I can't speak, 

For them, I bet it's a relief 

For now they can pat themselves proudly on their backs 

That they were right all along,

And make indisputable claims 

That their truth is mine.

The unfairness of it all crushing 

all questions I ever dared to ask,

Until all that is left are lofty pedestals 

When there should've been a welcoming dinner table. 

I can't speak

Which might as well be 

For the questions seem meaningless 

The demands too trite 

The pleas all futile. 

I can't speak. 

I don't miss the words 

even as I seek comfort in the silence 

ever so,
once in a while, 

I do miss the singing. 

#6: How to write a poem

Live.

Live fully with your eyes smiling a welcome 

To every moment, every person

That nudges you out of your comfort zone 

Leaving you feeling exposed to the strange world outside.

And in that nakedness, choose words that will envelop you tight 

Like that quilt you hug close on a cold winter night. 

Pause.

Pause for just one moment or maybe a million

In between all the conversations, the chatter 

The running, the caring, the goofing, 
the ticking off items from the endless to-do-lists. 

And in that pause, 

unscramble those lines in your mind, 

Until some meaning you begin to find. 

Listen. 

Listen to the beating of your heart

When it feels joy, or love or anticipation.

And specially when it feels fear,

That makes you want to crawl into a tiny, tiny cave 

And as the heartbeat fills the silence of the cave

Tap out a rhythm that can give voice to your heart

To march out of the darkness & make a fresh start. 

Tune in. 

Tune into the voice that is only yours,

Into the life that only you have lived ,

Into those bundled up emotions that you hold in your hands

That look so horribly messed up, 

But to your eyes, make complete sense

And in that tuning in, 

Find the lines that hesitatingly connect the dots
between the dreams and the despairing thoughts. 

In that living.

Listening 

Pausing 

Tuning in,

Write that poem that's seeking you. 

Write like you don't really care.

Write like it means everything to you. 

Write like its the first time you are speaking to the world.

Write like its the last thing you'll ever say.

And in your writing, when the poem starts to flow, 

Hold it close as long as you want, 

Knowing that soon it'll be time to let go. 

#5: The last river

They say when I first descended on earth 

Roaring like a million drums beating in unison 

The divine destroyer had to spread his matted locks to break my fall

Lest my force destroy his dear devotees on Earth. 

Did he in his divine knowing not see 

That one day those very devotees would destroy me? 

The dams they built have fractured my backbone beyond repair 

My limbs lie corroded by the effluents drained into me, 

My sound is now muted by the drillers in an endless search for water,

And my flow that once danced and meandered over miles across the lands

Now trickles, slow and tired, 

Like the single stream of sweat 

From the brow of the farmer looking heavenwards praying for rain. 

Someone please tell him there's no point now. 

In these times, even a tapasvi like Bhageeratha would fail. 

What could he, a worn out man of the soil do,

Except, maybe gather the fallen trees 

they had planted in hopes of reviving me

And make a funeral pyre 

On which will lie the dying earth herself.