Author: Harpreet Chhachhia

Just me and nothing else but.

My Love Threatens.

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He grows away from me!
But why do I even care?
What? Why?
Years have passed, haven’t they?
I should have escaped Love’s snare!

Love made me compromise!
And always I was the one cheated!
My heart proved cold initially –
Was always the one to get slowly heated!

So much heat that, on reflection,
Makes me the fool!
As his warm heart flitters down
And he gets to play Daddy Cool!

I bare my fucking soul,
In this fucking love game,
So much so that my fucking pride,
Keeps forgetting my fucking name!

My name! That I’ve created
With such arrogant determination!
And now it rests in his hand
Bearing heated flagellation!

It comes finally to this point:
Where he threatens with an illicit fuck!
My heated heart finally realizes!
It is finally out of luck!

(Tragic.) But the question of Hate
Is never out of Love’s circumference!
The opposite of both creatures
Is flaccid Indifference!

Because my whipped heart is still warm,
I struggle to hold it up at the stake:
What? Why?
Let it cool into feeling nothing?
Or just let the feeling thing break?

A Love Grown Old.

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Seven falls have come and gone.
Life has pressed us paper thin.
The seasons pass and love rusts;
Indifference comes creeping in.

No touches now, no parting glances,
No cards or sentiments on flowers;
No tender private smiles
To ease the pain of the passing hours.

The hours! Oh, the hours
Hasten away and my body grows cold,
While I wonder if this is true
Of a love that seems to grow old.

Grows old with my ageing face,
With those young eyes now morose,
Over a lack of interest,
In a love, in captured repose.

The Heart.

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There is no present future for the heart,
Sadness and love seldom (if ever) part.
Locked in different, tiny chambers lie
Pride, Love, Hope, Anger and Jealousy.

Each cannot hear the others tears
And there is a slow build-up of fears
Blood is the only messenger here,
Which deals with its own diseases drear.

Love wails, Pride stomps its hoof,
Jealousy burns and Anger lashes the roof!
Hope prays and struggles to live
And the hearts lost What to take? What should give?

It has got to breathe. It has got to beat.
Muster some will while giving body heat.
If only you knew, poor, poor, little heart,
When the end and why to even start.

29th January, 2003.