We are society-

 

We are society.
You, me, her, him.
We are the man with the gun
Bringing an end to another soul;
We are the man on the street,
With hands outstretched
Just one more meal.
We are the woman looking behind
In an empty street,
Hands trembling, praying
for a safe return home.
We are the man with the hoodie
And white powder in his pocket,
We are the kid with the money,
In exchange.

We are society:
You, me, her, him.
We bleed society.
We stain society.
We make society.
We blame society.
It is neither a wall, nor a street,
A road or a bottle.
Society is you and me.
Do you get what I’m saying?

 

Day 14: To each their own way

Some talk- and that’s all they do,
Some walk without, a sideways glance,
On rainy- and sunny days alike.
(Each, their own way of living life).

Some watch, from their windows high,
Mastered in knowing, others daily lives,
A deflection, from the thoughts encroaching.
(To Each, their own way of coping).

Some greet, with a cheery smile,
Strangers and known folks alike;
Some find it, a hypocritical act.
(Each, their own way of living life).

Some sigh, at the sight of love-
Two hands entwined and the silver shines,
dreaming, of what they might never have.
(To each, their own way of coping)

Some live, without loving life-
Oh, the scent of pine trees abound at dawn;
Trudging, through twenty four hours.
(Each their own way of living life).

---

Day 14: something beginning with T and Day 15: Love. This is in response to December Poetry Challenge 31 poems in 31 days. 

Once upon a Journey-

I once met a girl on a journey,
She told me she was tired.
This world had broken her will to live,
Long sleep- was what she desired.

12 year old, me could not understand,
Why sleep with so much to wake for?
The stars in itself kept me up at night,
In awe of their beauty and creation.

I was a kid, and she was a kid,
Two beings with different experience,
She wanted to sleep,
My own days were too short-
Our route had no intersection.

I once met a girl on a journey,
And she told me she was tired,
Now I wonder if maybe I’d shown her my life,
Her skies might be a bit clearer.

Years have gone by, since my encounter
And I hope her grey clouds have departed;
There’s a twinge in my heart,
When I think of the past,
And there was little I did to help her.

The beautiful image above is courtesy of This Site

Flash Fiction: The New Neighborhood

The neighborhood was eerily quiet, with only a handful of people visible, going about their businesses. I was going to love moving here, I thought to myself. There was even a parking space reserved for me, ah, gone were the days of fighting with the neighbors over “my space, your space”.

A young fair-skinned man, dressed in jeans and a blue shirt hurried towards me, interrupting my thoughts.
“Sorry, for being late”, he said amidst breaths. He introduced himself as Mark, the real-estate agent and offered to help park my car properly while I checked out the house.

I had barely stepped inside the house, thinking what a generous person this Mark was, when the roar of a car driving off, alerted my attention. I hurried to find an empty parking space, my car gone,  no sign of Mark and everyone else going about their businesses.

I was carless and nobody cared. Oh, how I missed my nosey neighborhood.

---

word count: 159. The above story is in response to Flash Fiction For Aspiring Writers photo prompt challenge, hosted by Priceless Joy. Thank you very much @Phylor for this week’s image. 

Writer’s Quote: Langston Hughes

February 1st marks the beginning of a month, we the singles like to overlook because of a certain event happening on the 14th. But, it is also the day poet and social activist Langston Hughes was born. If you are looking for a poem with sass, rhyme, humor and meaning all bound together, then Langston’s poem is the go to. He is one of those authors whose poems I could binge on. Langston Hughes wrote about slavery and racism at a time when it was prevalent in the society and speaking up against them was risky, yet he dared. Just like the quote above, he used his gift of writing to urge the world towards change.

On May 22, 1967, Hughes died in New York City from complications after abdominal surgery related to prostrate cancer, at the age of 65 (acc to Wikipedia). Below, is another piece of his.

“The night is beautiful,
So the faces of my people.

The stars are beautiful,
So the eyes of my people

Beautiful, also, is the sun.
Beautiful, also, are the souls of my people.”
             -“My People” in The Crisis (October 1923)

The above post is in response to writer’s quote Wednesday hosted by Silver Threading

The Maiden-

You want to hear a story-
Well, once upon a time;
There lived a dark haired maiden,
With skin a caramel brown;
Her eyes- a lighter shade of grey,
Which shone blue under light.

This maiden had a family,
Three sisters and a dad;
Her mother passed away long since,
Their father rarely around;
she had to work and strive from dawn,
To keep the chimney alight;
But with a smile she strove each day-
Her siblings could sleep at night.

Now where’s the twist in the drama?
I hear you eagerly ask;
Well here’s the interesting part,
I’d share with you at last-
This maiden worked her hats off,
Keeping her siblings alive;
Till they grew up, and schooled now too-
And married off in grand.

But live alone the maiden did,
Amidst the neighbors prying;
Ignoring words, most not too nice-
She still didn’t settle down;
Some thought that she must be insane,
To let such beauty die;
They couldn’t see that she was happy,
Living a life on her terms.

But people always need reason,
If things aren’t their way;
And Kept on forcing the maiden’s hand-
Till she admitted, she was insane;
And now when travellers wonder why,
Such beauty is not engaged;
The towners cooly answer on –
Oh, that maiden, she’s insane.

      IMAGE LINK

Save your tears-

All my life, I keep hearing-
Save your tears;
For what, for who?
When is it ever worth it,
Will it ever be?
How long do I save it,
Till It all comes spilling?
Every bucket has to fill,
Or are my glands infinite?
How cold should I get,
Before I’m thawed?
Should I Stay frozen,
Till eternity comes?

Save your tears-
They keep screaming;
How long should I save it,
Till I lose my sanity?!

So, I lay down and I weep;
I cry with a little scream;
Now I know it’s not cause I’m weak;
Tears are a sign of strength within;
‘Save your tears’ –
they keep screaming;
Do they know that even-
The sky sometimes weep?

A rose, a thorn-

Have you seen a rose
Without a thorn?
Or a road
Without a bump?
The light of a candle
In bright sunlight?
Or the stars
Without dusk?

Do not expect me
To shine and smile;
And hide my face
In veil of light;
Unless a rose
Is without a thorn-
I’ll keep my darkness
Awaiting dawn.

‘Cause this Rose,
she’s happily thorned.

 

Why Poets Write…

Because,
They all seem to listen,
But they never hear;
They listen with ears perked up,
To the words that’s pleasing to them;
And the words we need them to hear,
Are brushed by their ears as noises;
And the heart we pour out each time
Is gone with the wind- distant voices;

And that’s why poets write
Instead of doing the talking;
Because people- they seem to listen
But really, they never hear.