Category: Poems

That Guy

Published on by Harpreet Chhachhia1 Comment

I’m the guy who sees the first star
In the night sky
and thinks of wishes to be made.
I’m the guy who collects each card
That he receives:
Cards carry thought in writing,
colours carry emotion.
I’m the guy who will love a book
As a gift,
But loves the inscription more;
Those few words are the reason
For all the rest of the words
Printed within.
I’m the guy who forgives easy,
Millennia of letting go
Is carried in my unconscious.
I’m the guy who cries
When watching a sad movie –
(Yep, i’m that guy,
So beware.)
I’m also the guy who doesn’t expect less,
Though there is more understanding derived from each facet of new experience.
I’m the guy who doesn’t regret
Much.
I’m the guy who loves easy but long.
Love tends to last
Over money, life and even time.
I’m the guy who recognises,
The inevitability of loss,
Yet chooses to return
To what appears fragile.

I’m the guy who has learnt a lot
But isn’t done with learning.
I’m the guy who wants to give up hope
But isn’t done with yearning.

Done

Published on by Harpreet Chhachhia1 Comment

If I had the guts
I’d take a razor to my vein,
Or jump. Or walk before
A western railways train.
Nothing grand to meet death.
He would be the only friend
That I could trust
To meet me at the very end.
There is nothing really about life
That makes me want to live.
All it does is take,
All I do is give.
Well, not you, perhaps.
Perhaps it’s just me.
That would be the reason
To die, you see.
Life isn’t hard.
It teaches you to stop lying.
I wonder why then
They prevent you to stop trying.
Maybe it’s for selfish reasons.
But i’m not living to live,
Or to view the change in seasons.
If there is nothing left
To look forward to,
And you are done,
With all you had to say and do,
There’s no need to live on,
And marvel at the setting sun,
Or think of age and sex and love,
And pay for a treadmill to run.
There will be tomorrows,
There will be new beginnings,
There will be joy,
There will be sorrows.
I won’t begrudge that;
But I’ve had my share of fun;
And I feel it’s time.
I feel I am done.

Due

Published on by Harpreet Chhachhia1 Comment

The seasons have left,
there are none for my future.
My measure stands bereft,
old wounds know no suture.

The leaves have crumbled
into a crypt filled with dust,
all of love lies jumbled
with loss, lies and lust.

It’s a mire of confusion.
What has life led me to?
It all seems like an illusion.
Who am I? Who are you?

The wind is still, the heat is here,
Hands take what they can.
I am left with what I think is fear
And no real measure of man.

My dogs die, like the seasons do,
Though I enjoy each most.
All that seems to remain true
Are the illnesses I guiltily host.

Regrets I have borrowed,
When I prided myself on having none.
And everything I followed,
Seems to in infinite circles run.

The sun now holds one promise,
maybe I yearn for him to be true:
somewhere, I will find my share of bliss,
sometime, I will be given my due.