Author: Harpreet Chhachhia

Someone dear sent me this picture.

I guess he meant the compliment but all I could see was the other part cloaked in guise of the compliment. I felt as terrible as the quote said I was. Ironically, out of the feeling came this poem.

The mind speaks past horror,
It battles with the heart,
Creating creation,
Transcending into art.

But is this terrible:
To exert poesy from pain,
To subdue the horror,
To wear away disdain?

If madness promotes creation,
If passion is thus built from strife,
Drench me with lunacy,
Surfeit me with life.

I know not what you mean,
All things aren’t what they seem.
A word is just a word –
Waiting just to be heard.

Perhaps we met in a past life,
Perhaps you ease some part of strife.
Why should I give feeling a name?
I know not if it remains the same.

I know you hear a part of me
And that you, at times, set pain free.
Why should you mean or seem true?
Maybe you are how I see you.

What is now is real – for awhile.
Let’s not think, shall we? Let’s just smile.

6am

this last loss eats away at my insides
there is nothing to hold this fall
heart caves in like rolling tides
a whirlpool consumes it all

but it doesn’t end
every insidious particle of life
lover mother god friend
bring new oceans of strife

the dark is all that i can see now
love was an illusion of time
i hope beyond hope in this flow
but hope it seems was never mine

the paths of water rage and roar
and i try to stay afloat
somewhere i see eagles soar
while my ears hear waves gloat

the whirlpool again begins to swell
and i am caught again in its eddy
and death has forsaken this hell
though i scream i am ready i am ready