Tag: my Poetry

Et tu, Brute

Published on by Harpreet Chhachhia1 Comment

There are words that can cut like knives;
I have no use for the likes of such;
And when friends brandish them for woe,
That does seem to account for much.

They spin through the air and draw blood,
Much like some martial arts movie;
And they are sent with desires to wound
To decimate my self completely.

I see the glee in the eyes as they take aim;
The thoughtful precision of a taunt,
The cocking of the brow and curling lip
That releases the word designed to haunt.

I have never known the pleasure of this;
Perhaps it goes against my grain,
The way I was taught and reared and loved
Not to strike back in kind; but refrain.

In laughter, much is said that wouldn’t be,
In laughter, wounds are made as well as healed,
In laughter, words are made and broken,
In laughter, much malice is artfully concealed.

It depends on how we choose to use it;
May a smile, that softly reaches the eyes,
Overtake a barbed word, that spins forth,
Before a patchwork of marked lies.

May soft eyes, genuinely, care to safeguard
Tender feelings and genuine pleasure;
May everyone be happy and sane
And let what is leisure remain leisure.

They Sometimes Say

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

When I love they, sometimes, say i love right,
Then, behind doors, they also softly, say,
That within the darkest caverns of night,
I love differently than in the day.

They speak of the numerous things I do:
Of the friends I seem, somehow, to acquire,
The way I dress up and how I walk, too,
Of how I’m a saint and how a liar.

I must have some guile to steal affection,
For clearly, I can’t earn it on my own,
Love I gain from filial connection,
Luckily, all by God and chance was thrown.

The moon has secrets to give me, for sure,
That’s how we witches are known to survive;
I am nothing but a dangerous lure,
Like handsome bears being drawn to a hive.

I have warped morality and no code,
For all see the beauteous life I live,
With wondrous occasions on me bestowed
And ingratitude is what they see me give.

So rumour has it that I am well off.
Nothing could I possibly need more.
Well-spoken, well-mannered and well thought of,
A never-ageing, immaculate whore.

Fading and Forgetting

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

Love is love; but love isn’t enough, is it?
A bullet is the unlikeliest end;
But that can happen sudden; even worse,
Love can very subtly fade out or pretend

To be just nestling there when it is not.
The complexities lessen and pass on
To other more trivial things like bills
And other matters mundane and forlorn.

It is a matter for weeping truly;
Where did all of the good get up and go?
Where is the happily ever after?
Oh, How very much I would like to know!

Was it cast out to make way for life’s woe?
Have younger bodies teased a lost passion?
Was that all love had to be, do and say
In a somewhat daintier fashion?

Love is love, I reckon; but I can tell:
It permeates like frost on life’s window,
And what I could see from it, like before,
May be there still; but I cannot be sure.

If bullets strike my heart I could recall,
In the throes of pain, of what used to be;
And, despite the frost forming on the panes,
I may look beyond and think I truly see.

Perhaps the fading and the forgetting
Are needed to create the shielding frost;
There may not be a need to remember,
For what’s here is clear and was never lost.