Category: Written in 2011

Valentine 2011

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

Time has a way of stealing away love.

It corrodes from the outside to within.

Now it becomes hard to decipher

What is virtue and what is sin.

There are countless people who say they love,

Though hate eats away their souls as they grin,

Whereas those people who profess to scorn,

Have compassion housed deep within,

And what I see all around me

Is a hollowed belief caving in.

 

Through this tumbling sanctuary of dreams,

This exhausted race to figure it all,

You have been the constant,

You have been my wherewithal.

You are my Atlas,

My valiant mark,

You are the candle

Shining in my dark.

Life says, all changes, everyone will leave;

You disproved, and I go on to believe.

Metamorphosis

Published on by Harpreet Chhachhia1 Comment

My dear mom,

You said that you hate the way I am;

In essence, negating the best part of me:

The courage to say I am different;

The truth that I want you to see.

The tears you shed, ma, were actually torn from me,

The hurt you bear is only a small part of mine,

It took effort to bear my soul,

It took innumerable moments in time.

I wonder, as I walk away from you,

If you will ever realise,

I am cast out for being true to myself and you,

From under a shelter of lies.

I think, as I walk down this new road alone,

Of friends, of love, of hope, of you and our pain,

It strikes that I won’t even have the grandkids

Who may bring you back to me again.

Yet I walk on, because, somewhere deep inside,

There is this voice that strengthens me,

By being honest about my difference and refusing to hide,

I have had a hand in protecting another destiny.

Mine may not be safe,

If you are to be believed,

But that voice keeps telling me

My soul, my soul, is relieved.

 

03.49am

17th June 2011

 

Hello, Fool

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

 

Why was there a second chance,
When you yourself do believe:
The deceiver’s heart
Beats but to deceive?

When has the scorpion
Changed enough as a friend,
That the frog who carries him on his back
May just get to see a different end?

More fool you, fool, fool you,
Who knows change in essence
Is but a mere adaptation
Of just an overt difference.

Then how do you know?
And how do you feel?
If only you could stop your heart,
Or rather, squash it with your heel.

Still, this is mere rhetoric;
And your world is delusion;
So the only sane thing to do
Is be a god of illusion.

What do I write or say and to whom?
As the world, you, too, remain the same.
If only you could adapt, dear fool,
To cruel rules of this callous game.