Truth or Scared?

Place your chin here and observe directly into the light. Tell me what you see.
Is the image clearer with this, or this?”

That’s a question I never know the answer to. Like both those instances seem unclear to me. They always do. Do I tell the truth? No! so I do lie? Yes!
So, when else do you lie you little bird?

 “are you okay?”
“how was the test?”
“when am I going to see you?”
“how far are you?”

Yes, I do lie in those instances too. I ‘lie’ cause the truth, a powerful tool as it is, could hurt you or me, or what we have. So, I ‘lie’-I have to: to give you hope, or give me an escape from certain emotions.

And when do you tell the truth?

I miss you!”
“I love you!”
“I am scared. I am scared because I have a feeling this might be the last letter I write to you, at least for a very long time. I was scared since the last day we spoke, and I’ve been scared every time I had to write on a new page-praying that it wouldn’t be my last paragraph, hoping that it wouldn’t be my last word to you. They have been keeping me sane for all those years, reminding me that I have someone who cares truly, or once did. Now I have so many, all of them getting close to me…and I can no longer fight. I can’t.

So maybe its time I let go, maybe its time I move on. Be happy like you would have wanted me to be. With no sad playlists, no more sad songs. No sad blogging, no emotional poems.
like how it was before you left.
like how I was with you here.

Maybe its time for me to start again. Let people in, and believe-in friendships, in love, in eternity, in God and in me. Just like how you would have wanted. This time, I will try not to disappoint. No promises though, cause that would make it a lie.”

I wish I could cut you out like a paper from a book
and leave you outside my window
for the sun to fade to grey.

I wish I could relinquish our bond like a leaf from a tree
and ignore you on the dust
for the earth to turn into waste.

I wish, I wish.
I wish I could forget you,
but at the same time I pray you forget me not.

Now did that hurt?”
“Yes… No. A little bit!”

“Well, you will be okay! Since that’s what you like being!

Beautiful pieces

A palace in the middle of imaginations.
A wreck of a home-to them a dynasty-
full of blood craving a taste of harmony.
She was born.
The walls creaked with ecstasy,
the wails brought hope: she believed.
She saw them broken, ready to make their pieces whole,
little did she know, she was set for a ruthless road.
She was just naïve.
She was me.

Hours had gone, the sun was no longer the same,
the dynasty broke, the bonds shattered in ages.
She was still very young, but not too selfless to understand
that despite the peace, she also brought war
and mixed with love, she bred despise
for the ceremonies held were not of joy,
but of malice, and specks of regret.
She was meant to die.
She was me.

In the thatched shanty with her grandfather she lay.
He was her last hope; the first drunkard she had seen.
His words brew blind hope
as his songs uttered blessings to his own.
But she wasn’t his blood,
he cared less to know her name-lest he would have said it just once-
even if as a curse, to her it would have been a coated blessing.
That’s all she ever craved, eight hours beside the river.
That’s all she ever cried for, till the river turned into clay.
She wasn’t related.
She was me.

The bamboo trees swayed in matrimony.
The light was back, though in secrecy.
He was sent by the Heavens to teach her how to love
and there, he became one of her only two relations.
Minutes later, he was attacked and kept away from his own
and on his return, he could no longer breathe.
It became her first loss; her first drown.
She had lost all she had-
forgotten for a much brighter illusion.
She felt tired.
She was me.

The bus drivers hoot out loud in distress-
she had just rested for six seconds.
The weight on her shoulders had gotten heavier,
the humans surrounding drew farther.
Her heart had never known to seek help.
Her eyes grew impatient for the sun rise.
Now she cries no more, for her pain surrendered
to drunk glasses and bended knees.
Her soul remains caged,
her body lies feeble, years awake.
The world is tempting.
The battles are enraging.
She dreams of being with her papa,
then maybe with closed eyes she would be good enough,
maybe in another life, she will be strong enough.
There’s only much one can take:
her mama knows not,
but she needs a break.
she is me.