Stood watching that blank paper
With girls screaming outside
Happiness, glee or madness
Nor I nor They could decide
While talks went loud and long
A word my pen didn’t say
They laughed themselves into oblivion
And I tore my paper away
It’s all going to be the same. The dark times, the low hours. Write a different story,make up different scenarios. Trust different people, love different shades. Hide, hope. Leave, stray. It’s all gonna be the same.
There’s that caution in the air. When to say what, where to what.What if she finds out,What if he found out. Don’t want him to know I’m happy, don’t want to tell her I am sad. Guard those emotions, write a hundred stories with the same basic idea and pain that the words start to seem fake and the emotions all monotonous and cliché.
Walk the same roads, eat the same food, make the same jokes, laugh the same laugh, walk the very walk and run the very track. Cry every birthday, anniversary, party, holiday. Make the same mistakes over and over againWaiting for that tomorrow to make everything right. Waiting for that Sun after the night Tell me I talk vague Hit me, I don’t see your face Walk away in your cowardice, or stay in that mere shame. You tell me I am not here I live in a galaxy far away I look around and see the world And see your sigh hanging in the air You tell me I am different and so strange Look through my eyes, It’s all just the same
I was just going through my drawer and I came across the diary I had when we shifted to the city, I always start a diary with a poem or something, here’s how I started this oneHere’s and example, From a Butterfly Who on a tough, hard rock, Happy can lie Friendless and all alone, On this unsweetened stone Now let my bed be hard, No care take I – I’ll make joy like this, Small butterfly Who’s happy heart has power, To make a stone, a flower
P.s. I didn’t write it
A phone call, a sweet voice, my closing eyes, my cold hands My kid’s 18 Yes mom, She’s 18. My kid’s old now.. Oh yes mom.. your kid’s old Splashing my face with cold water, smearing my bun with jam Oh yes, a kid’s eighteen. Kicking my bruised feet ahead, walking to the bus in green, Joking with the mates, a group laughs They don’t know I’m 18 Blaring lectures, moving around As the cramps cripple my spine and the bus threaten to leave Her kid’s 18 In a hall of crying adults, a kid cheers them all She likes walking alone, she likes smiling on them all Happy to be one of them, happy to be apart She’s 18, 18 after all Reads her texts, replies them all. Steals college wifi, attends her calls Smooths her bed, books and plates Writes her journal. Bounces jumps and states They all like her, some might not But then she was a kid, now she’s not Oh Mom.. you’ll never know Your kid was old, old all along…
I have mood swings; we all do… I saw winds whooshing past and the wind chilling my hands as I sat and a poem came again in my mind, came and went.. Just like the gust of warm winds that used to come in the sunny days.. Came and went. Came and went..Now close the windows and hush all the fields If the trees must, let them silently toss; No bird is singing now, and if there is, Be it my loss. It will be long ere the marshes resume, I will be long ere the earliest bird: So close the windows and not hear the wind, But see all wind-stirred
But yes.. I am not going to explain the meaning and the context and all we do in our papers with our pens.. Some feelings are best just felt.. unsaid and untainted.. Or maybe this is one big excuse for feelings we dare not confess. Or maybe we never have the actual words. So, clad in excuses or reasons, if you may, I can just give you one other poemI have wished a bird would fly away, And not sing by my house all day; Have clapped my hands at him from the door When it seemed as if I could bear no more. The fault must partly have been in me. The bird was not to blame for his key. And of course there must be something wrong In wanting to silence any song.
And I smile the most sad smile of them all….. =)
(Poem 1: Now close all the windows. Poem 2: A Minor Bird)