Tag: my Poetry

Until I Die

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

I have loved. I thought love was forever;
But all vows have a lease on the heart.
It seems it’s love that life does sever
After all, it’s until death do you part.

I have no compunctions anymore –
There are conditions to love life makes.
The mark of years must always implore,
Yet deepen the pain of all heart breaks.

I thought I was careful, sure and wise;
But there are factors I’ve failed to view:
Fathers and mothers, husbands and wives,
Each comes with his or her karmic due.

So, it’s just when I turn to tell you
Of how I ache and why I sigh,
You say, sure, you will always be true,
Up until the very day I die.

Blood is thicker than water

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

I can’t sleep.
I’ve walked these empty rooms,
In my mind.
I’ve heard the snores,
From tired and uncaring mouths.
Stop. Rewind.
I bang against these walls.
I have cried my tears.
I can’t get hurt again,
I can’t face the same fears.
I thought I was rid of them,
Ages ago, when I stopped caring.
But here I am.
Without sleep, vacantly staring.
What keeps me awake?
I know the reason.
I dread to let hope die
And wait for the change in season.
I remember all that love said to me,
I recall the words before its slaughter;
There’s the end of love, when
Blood proves to be thicker than water.

Just Tell Me

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

Do not cheat me.
Tell me you’re lonely.
Tell me you want more.
Tell me all openly.

I have been cheated on;
When I had the chance to,
I did not.

I have believed in love,
I waited in its garden;
Even when winter set in,
Hoping for the thaw of spring.
I stopped, when I knew,
Standing all alone in the snow,
My wait was foolish.

The cold had its own beauty;
But I couldn’t bear it.
I like the grey,
But devoid of the cold.

If you have brought me,
To this new garden,
Where spring now has roses aflower,
Do not leave me alone.
If you must,
Let me know,
If you develop allergies
To the flowers – or worse, to me.
Tell me
You have to go.

I prefer the grey
Not the pitch black of ignorance.
Speak to me of love,
Rid me of romance,
I will not pull back.

Just tell me,
You want to visit other gardens;
So I can prepare
And make a future winter
Short.
Or, if that is not possible
Than, at least,
Travel to a warmer one.

Don’t cheat on me
With lies
Or the omission of truth.

Just tell me:
So I do not suppose
And blame neither the thorn
Nor the bloodiest rose.