Tag: mypoetry

Unhappy

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

There is this part of me,

A responsibility,

I feel it every day,

Scraping my insides,

I have reasoned with it,

Telling it to grow up,

Be strong and face life

And its reality.

I have bargained with it,

Giving it compassion,

Clothes and food,

Even a daily hug;

But it wants more.

I cannot give this thing

A loving glance,

It has remained the same,

I’ve outgrown this dance.

It asks me at daybreak,

If I still feel passion;

But time has changed me,

In every physical fashion.

It seeks to feel what I gave,

A long time ago,

I choose to bestow a hug

And nothing more.

It asks me at noon,

If I remember it at work,

And I want to yell

“How can I forget your fucking nails?”

It asks me at twilight,

If the sun is as gold

As the time we danced,

I look at the gold and think

How many more years

Before it burns out.

Perhaps if I ignore the thing,

Its own need will eat it alive.

I’ll prevent a rescue,

Even if it is from me –

Perhaps sadness will do the deed

For it can never be happy.

I May

Published on by Harpreet Chhachhia3 Comments

No face, darkly etched, from charcoal,
No word, that can form any prose,
No light, at the end of the tunnel,
No calm, to lend the mind repose.

Words there were, many years ago,
A promise to see the heart through,
The sun shone bright on butterflies,
On anticipation of the new.

Sadness and grief are siblings now,
They have their own stories to share,
It’s charming in their company, too,
They make for a creative pair.

I fear listless indifference,
That’s maneuvering towards me,
Like some fog on a dead cold sea,
Sending a sail down to captivity.

Inspiration waits for those who seek her,
Like some whore on a barren door;
But what of those who chose to love,
And are loved by Neglect forever more?

The past too, spreads her milk-white thighs,
In that softness lies no morrow;
And what can future present
Wrapped tight in her bliss or sorrow?

As day turns to long, lonely night,
The eyes feel heavier than the night before,
I may slip into the dark of the past
Or let Neglect make life a bore;
I may move towards that fog-ridden sea,
Away from this pox-ridden whore.

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.