Tag: poem

What I Know of Heaven and Hell.

Published on by Harpreet Chhachhia1 Comment

I have never asked for much.
Just to live the way You made me.
I have lived by my terms alone.
Those were conducted honestly.

No great ambition, no low vice,
Yet I’ve suffered loss, greatly so;
But I have shown no cowardice
And this is something You do know.

You put one hubris in my heart:
This need that burns within my core.
You caressed it thrice with your pawns
Ultimately, I was Your whore.

You threw down love, like ‘twas my fee,
For all that I have given You.
Maybe my mistake was calling you Father
After lying before you naked and true.

I love You. But don’t treat me thus!
It’s unfair to make me desire.
On giving, you make me Your whore
But know that makes You my buyer.

If You need revenge of some sort,
You are exacting it quite well,
And in the pain of my loved ones
You are creating my hell.

People talk of life after death;
But, oh, I know the truth so well,
Each smile You let is my heaven,
Each tear You force is my hell.

5:45am
7th October.

The Way To Be.

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

Superficiality is quite “in”.
The right amount of Prada and Gucci,
The right amount of relative sin;
The right man to see, the rich one to be.
The right kind of smile (eyes should hide the lie),
The right company (those infamous friends),
Right surgeries as time passes you by.
Right faith? Well, on current fashion depends.

Love’s idiocy! Oh, it can be bought!
Careers have no place at all for virtue!
To bed Lucifer, battles are fought;
The good are boring and are losers, too!

The loss of honour a small price for fame;
Though your mother shuns, the world knows your name!

5:35pm.
22nd November.

On Thought.

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

In my heart there are certain places that are shared by none;
For those are the places restricted to the number one,
Among whom special people share a certain heart-view;
And amongst this number I count you.

In life, life itself fails to allow words to express each emotion –
Every fish can certainly not describe each and every ocean –
Aye, at times, a word communicates itself by thought,
In days like these, these are rarely wrought.

The thought to call out lurks all day, then the eye spots an eye,
So this thought suddenly unfurls its wings and begins to fly,
When the eye, done, blinks and rebounds to it, by-and-by,
The thought is consumed by the blue sky.

Words again I use to describe the thought that was forgotten,
Threads of silk I need to use to tie up this wayward cotton,
To let you know, in this place, in my heart, where you reside,
There is but soft simple cotton with no silk beside.