Tag: mypoem

First Love

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

I gave you years –
I waited in years –
I gave you my love
Washing its font with tears.

I spoke no ill
As I bore your lies –
I waited and waited and waited –
For a last good bye –

You kept me hanging –
I loved you still –
I have your side –
And I always will –

You ignored my pain
Because you wove it well –
And that you lied –

No one could tell.

Now as decades pass
I can say without regret,
That I have remembered
What you chose to forget.

Yet what creates pain –
At this our very end –
I’ve called you my first love –
You called me a dear friend –

Notes

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

I have lost the will to rhyme,
I have no hurt left to give;
I have given up on time,
Besides the will to forgive.

The questions don’t linger now,
For I know my self quite well:
It’s seldom I break a vow,
Though I have no soul to sell.

Death does not loom, not for me,
It is a known song I sing,
It’s just that the notes aren’t free,
So I fear some reckoning.

I have lost and I have gained,
Like fat that comes and goes,
Neither state ever remained:
Sunlight into moonlight flows.

My people don’t like me much,
But I hope my furkids do;
Love has yet its own sweet touch;
Thus, I bear when it’s untrue.

I become something older;
Yet I recognise the child;
Temperance makes me colder;
But oh, panic keeps me wild!

your book

Published on by Harpreet Chhachhia1 Comment

I was cleaning a drawer
Filled with documents and such.
A book I had stashed away
Peeped out from a corner.

It had your poems and accounts
And an old, faded rose.
I forgot if you or I had saved the bloom,
But your handwriting was enough
To send me into a spiral.

The pages of the book were yellow,
Your words were written in pencil,
Your handwriting curvy
And almost illegible.
It was a struggle;
Then your voice
Shone in the words.

The first paragraph I read
Struck me—like a surprise hug.
It was about a sadness
And a wait—like all of life,
With dried petals caught in between.

You reached out to tell me
The written word means much;
It finds light and memory
Through life’s corners in dirty drawers.