Category: Poems

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.

Trojan

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

It’s all a matter of time:
Love evolves into honesty
And the tube light glare
Rips through at some point.
The thing that was once hidden,
Under the guise of empathy,
Lies naked for all to see,

Like a broken body after rape,
Open to the lenses of posterity
And a boggling public
That cranes to see which part
Was most abused.
The need to hide exists no more.
Justice demands sight and hearing.
A lynching is required.

Love is stronger than romance
And it can withstand a slap,
Or two.

Compromise is a grey area.

Love was not the same,
Either for Helen or Mumtaz –
Tom had jumped on a sofa
And after begetting children
Of blood, they say,
It all ended amicably.
I mean, the jumping ended.

I think myself grand enough
To think mine will last.
I shall let the Trojans in though;
Because I love horses.
(That is a different kind of love.)