Tag: mypoetry

Again

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

There’s a rush of roses
And sweets smearing my hands!
After all this time, I don’t think
My heart still understands –
It’s wary, yes – it’s unsure –
It’s much quieter than before;
It lies, in tremulous wait,
Of what lies in store.

But there’s still a rush of want,
There’s sex and there is hope,
So It quietly believes, still,
That it can cope
With whatever the future brings:
Sweets and roses, or bitter thorns,
A flight upon angel wings,
Or an impaling on demon horns.

Silly thing, why can’t it give in –
To life and all the lessons learnt
And the dreams, of a few years ago,
That now lie wasted or burnt?

Butterflies

Published on by Harpreet Chhachhia1 Comment

i lie in bed and my world is awhirl,
i think, and think, as i am lying…
i look at the small world i had and have,
i see, and see, and watch it dying;

these are the loves i had, all gone,
that was my family, the very few i had,
and each of them had to die, they did –
but their leaving still keeps me sad.

i remember the books i read, nights and days,
as a child, when i ran after butterflies,
i think it becomes so fucking sad to know
that most of this world is based on lies;

it says i am old now, even the lovers,
who come to seek my body out at my door;
but like all life it does not feel old inside,
I still feel the butterflies and so much more!

time has passed, and time will pass, as it has,
every poet i studied warned it must be so,
now i have seen lies and death up close,
i never chose to know them, but now i know…

i recognise the lies, i made peace with death;
but my world’s butterflies still fly and fly,
so, i’ll think my world a merry go around,
and since i am yet alive, ill try and try.

They Ask Me

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

They ask me,
When I write a poem of sorrow,
How is it that I am sad,
For I wear the smiles of tomorrow?

They ask me,
If they, by chance, see my tears,
Why do I worry,
When I have no cause for fears?

They ask me,
They ask me,
And I would tell them – I could –
(It hardly matters, if I should -)

But how do I explain
The years that pile on grief,
Little memories of deep wounds
That never brought relief,

How a father abused,
And bullies snatched my share,
How society points fingers,
How some malign, how some glare,

How the men I loved
Left me, for who I became,
And how, instead of shaming them,
I took almost all the blame,

How just when I feel at ease,
With the weight of difference I carry,
A sister feels she must lie,
When she makes her plans to marry,

How straight people have rights,
How my mother forgets my love,
How my country condemns me,
How I gave up every god above?

They tell me,
You still shine bright like a star –
And I know, I twinkle,
Because all they want is to watch me from afar.