I am much more-

I am much more-

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To all the friends
I pushed aside-
Sent every call,
To voice message .

Somedays my dark
Empowers me,
I blink, I breathe,
That’s all I can be.

To all the friends,
Who stood by me,
From dawn to dusk
And the dark in between.

When sorrow wipes
Aside my joy,
Your thoughts, remind me,
I am much more.

Much more than pain
Much more than tears
Much more than another,
Sad ending.

Because of you-
I am much more.

Of Life, of Love-

Of Life, of Love-

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You do not wait for opportunities,
you create them-
in the moments,
between,
the first string of light,
and when darkness-
envelopes the sky.

You do not wait for friendship,
To arrive,
At its time and pace,
And kick loneliness
To the curb,
With a sidekick.
You search it-
At the park,
The cafe,
Grandma’s birthday.

You do not wait for success,
To come knocking,
Down your door
Saying, I’m here now.
You hunt it down,
Axe and sword.
Heat and sweat.
Find it and claim-
It was always yours to Have.

But love… do you wait for love
To arrive, open arms,
Do you not?
Heck… what do I know about love.

Unlike the other woman-

Unlike the other woman-

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“But I love you,” he said.
And I wondered where he got the notion that saying the words “I love you” was akin to an eraser which wipes off a slate of past mistakes; a chant which hypnotises one into prompt obedience regardless of the absurdity of the orders; a piece of blindfold over a woman’s eyes to block off the reality of events.

Or maybe, he just assumed I am like the other woman who had come and gone. A blooming soul withered by a facade of love, fed on sugar coated words which tasted like nothing- nothing- a compilation of meaningless gestures- suffocating.

And maybe (cause I can only assume as mama always said speak for yourself alone) he was fed on the notion that love is blind, love is an eraser and love hypnotises in the hands of a man.

But honey, Living has taught me, you can scream I love you until the oxygen carrying capacity of your lungs deplete, without sincerity in action, it don’t mean nothing. Call me cynical, but living otherwise would have me ending up just like the other woman. A washed-up replica of a once upon a time star. 

Writer’s Quote: Nick Flynn

Writer’s Quote: Nick Flynn

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Something horrific happened recently. I hear you say, “which one?”, because sadly, every single day brings on a new horror story. The incident in question is the suicide by an 8 year old boy Gabriel Taye, after he was brutally assaulted in school by some students to the point of unconsciousness. A video released showed Gabriel lying unconscious on the floor being beaten and kicked by other students.
His mother had no idea about the incident, (which I believe the school should have called and explained the situation to the mother because, her kid was assaulted to the point of unconsciousness), and after Gabriel got back home, he killed himself.

I am saddened by his death and the incident surrounding it. It is stories like these which remind me that I cannot stop writing. Something needs to be done, kids with anger issues need to be taught ways to express themselves and an 8 year old kid should be playing with dolls and toy cars and not be tortured to the point of not wanting to spend another second on earth

It’s due to this I’m going to share a poem by Nick Flynn called Cartoon physics Part 1 as my writer’s quote/poem Wednesday submission. It Better expresses what I want to say than I can. Thank God for poetry.

Cartoon Physics, part 1 BY NICK FLYNN
Children under, say, ten, shouldn’t know
that the universe is ever-expanding,
inexorably pushing into the vacuum, galaxies

swallowed by galaxies, whole

solar systems collapsing, all of it
acted out in silence. At ten we are still learning

the rules of cartoon animation,

that if a man draws a door on a rock
only he can pass through it.
Anyone else who tries

will crash into the rock. Ten-year-olds
should stick with burning houses, car wrecks,
ships going down—earthbound, tangible

disasters, arenas

where they can be heroes. You can run
back into a burning house, sinking ships

have lifeboats, the trucks will come
with their ladders, if you jump

you will be saved. A child

places her hand on the roof of a schoolbus,
& drives across a city of sand. She knows

the exact spot it will skid, at which point
the bridge will give, who will swim to safety
& who will be pulled under by sharks. She will learn

that if a man runs off the edge of a cliff
he will not fall

until he notices his mistake.

I apologise for my absence, will try to Get back on track with my writing and blogging ❤

Writer’s Quote: For the young who want to

Writer’s Quote: For the young who want to

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Welcome to another Writer’s quote/poem Wednesday, where I share a quote and poem from some of the amazing writers I have come across through reading and listening to poetry. Today’s choice poet is Marge Piercy. High five if you have come across her works before. The poem I chose to share today is one I will recommend to my fellow writers. If you’ve ever been told writing is not a real job, and you should quit it and join the employment pool, then this poem is for you.

For the young who want to- Marge Piercy

Talent is what they say
you have after the novel
is published and favorably
reviewed. Beforehand what
you have is a tedious
delusion, a hobby like knitting.

Work is what you have done
after the play is produced
and the audience claps.
Before that friends keep asking
when you are planning to go
out and get a job.

Genius is what they know you
had after the third volume
of remarkable poems. Earlier
they accuse you of withdrawing,
ask why you don’t have a baby,
call you a bum.

The reason people want M.F.A.’s,
take workshops with fancy names
when all you can really
learn is a few techniques,
typing instructions and some-
body else’s mannerisms

is that every artist lacks
a license to hang on the wall
like your optician, your vet
proving you may be a clumsy sadist
whose fillings fall into the stew
but you’re certified a dentist.

The real writer is one
who really writes. Talent
is an invention like phlogiston
after the fact of fire.
Work is its own cure. You have to
like it better than being loved.

Life (as she knows it)

Life (as she knows it)

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What is life but a series of curveballs,
Of deaths which come unannounced,
Of heartaches and tear stained pillows,
Of forevers which end in the now.
Of betrayal by those whom you’d offer,
Your head on the pedestal for;
Of regrets and could haves, all the chances
For which a second, might not arrive.

She believed she had mastered life’s pattern,
All the crannies and nooks on its vast…
But the life that she knew was one sided,
Woven up and knitted out in pain…
She had seen loss one after another,
There was only so much she could take,
‘Fore the unbroken diamond she once was,
Lost its shine, by walling up pain.

If you see her she still is unbroken,
But her shine is never the same.


Side note: There has been a death in the family as a few of my blogging friends know. And that’s the reason for my absence from the blogging world for this month of may. Will get back to your comments and posts as soon as things settle down. 

Pieces of a Puzzle

Pieces of a Puzzle

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I am who you think I am and who you think I am not. I am a chest of secrecy and a cloak of openness. I am the strict parent and the fun-loving one. Yes, adrenaline courses through my blood and yes, I need caffeine to go through the day.

I am the spontaneous friend and the sensible one. The burger binger and the salad encourager. The lens wearer and the makeup lover. The football junkie and the pink stiletto owner.

I am who you know me to be, and who you’d never imagine of me. A hopeful dreamer and soulful realist. A traditional home-maker and modern go-getter. A day time hustler and nighttime writer. An avid talker and a silent listener. A couch lover and a crowd speaker.

I am who I am and despite what you may Want, I’ll always be who you’ll Need me to be.

V- Victory

V- Victory

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There will be days,
When you’ll think that you can’t;
You’ll gaze all around you,
Not a kind eye you’ll find;
You may wish that the ground,
Should split into two,
Pulling you into an abyss,
Where you’ll be understood.

There will be days,
When you’ll think to the past;
And the memories locked up
Would surface to light,
You’d search for solace,
In the arms of your kind,
Not a shoulder would hold You,
While you wither inside.

There will be days,
When you’ll think that you can’t,
But you will; don’t you give up,
victory is at hand.

U- Understand (to the one who walked out)

U- Understand (to the one who walked out)

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Understand,
When you decided,
We wasn’t worth the war,
My nights turned colder,
Than the December weather,
Soaked sheets became my partner
And gloom my constant shadow.
I was broken
And I showed it.

But understand,
A man walked out before you,
I was six and I remember,
Gazing through
Night constellations,
Wondering when,
He’ll make an appearance.
I was six,
I learnt to mend me.

Understand,
My atoms are made of
Brokenness and resilience,
And the stars at night I gaze at,
Remind me, of the light in darkness;
And my Lord,
Who saved me at six,
Wouldn’t leave me broken at thirty.
Understand- today I am grieving,
Tomorrow, will dawn a new scene.
Time for wallowing,
Time for fixing.

T- To the one who curses time

T- To the one who curses time

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Take heed my friend,
And curse time not;
The hands of the clock,
Move the same for all.

It ticks and it tocks,
With each passing dawn,
Allotting 24 hours
Regardless, to all.

The time I waste,
The time you make,
The best of use-
Is all the same.

Take heed my friend,
and curse time not,
For time is faultless,
We humans are not.