Clichés and gestures

Clichés and gestures

As free a soul as she may be
With a few she aspires trysts
As unfettered her mind may be
With some she remains prejudiced

As resurgent her self-respect may be
She shuns it to please one in a million
As much as her self drives her decisions
With some, she gladly takes the pillion

As cringe-worthy she finds banalities
She does cherish a quixotic gesture or two
For she may have built her own into a fortress
Her tunnels are still open to a few

Dreams and realities

Dreams and realities

“The canvas lay asleep

Pulled out to the morning glory abright

The chair creaks as I seat myself

Breaking silence, as I sit upright
I bend  forward, my hands reaching to the canvas

I lean in, my fingers feeling the canvas

I run my bare index, from left to right

The fine scrapes and weaves causing no peeve
I dip fingertips in white

The thumb covered in white

I reach out to the canvas

Careful that the thumb is at lack
My eyes, they’re closed 

With my hands running free;

My finger run the weave of the canvas

My thumb feeling frozen at ninety degrees

Each thread of my canvas, daubed
I can touch over three at a time

I can feel my hand smeared in paint

I can see the picture in my mind

I can feel the muse I have created

And I can feel I have done my time
I ease my eyes open to reality

I see my act, my  creation, all grey

I ease my hands into perspective 

I see my soul, my deviation, and me in disarray. ”

Signed: 05/08/2015
We wish the world sees our good. We wish the world sees us as saints. But we oft forget that we are, but, humans. We are imperfect. Though we aim for perfection, never wanting to let the black stain our white, yet that happens. That will happen. There is no more to our lives, than there is to the canvas. 

It can be considered as stained. Or painted. 

It can be considered as meaningless. Or a muse. 

It can be considered as polluted. Or simply, grey.

Slump Pump

It’s days like these
These days that make you sore
Days where the Sun hurts
But the shade also bores

It’s days like these
These days that stir the mind into a curry
Days when the routine is brimming with activity
Still your heart finds time to worry

It’s days like these
These days when every single element of your life seems tangled and tossed
Days when the mind runs a million miles an hour
You feel worthless; all feeling is lost

It’s days like these
These days that throw you a rope
That if you can emerge alive, though bruised,
There’s still hope

Fail, not frail

Walking back home from a tough day, the songs wired into her ears as usual, have lost the capability to fight her thoughts. Her eyes, that on other days feed love to the stray munchkins passing by, can’t even hold contact with any creatures on the street today. She knows all too well, that any pair of eyes she looks into, would ask the same question, causing her to give the same shattering reply, with a reciprocation in the form of sympathy, judgment, or worse even, pity. “Better luck next time”, they will say. Well luck?! Has it come down to that now?
No. She cannot allow that. She cannot allow the mundane to set in herself. Her loss is not as stereotypical as to be received with brimming tears, or to be vent out slamming in anger, or to be caressed and smothered with sympathy. Her loss needs to be celebrated. Which she will, not with other beings, but with herself. This celebration, she intends, be a send-off, a “farewell to thee”; this celebration, she intends, be a warning, a “here I come Victory”