Why Leave a Mark?

Why leave a mark behind?
A mark that you'll never know you've left?
Of what use is others' lament?
Be it a friend's or a stranger's?

Is it not a live human's struggle,
To live and to endure,
Selfishness and fear to die,

Is it not fear that makes you a fighter?
Is such a battle not a display of cowardice?
A fear of the unknown?
Perhaps beyond this breathless struggle,
Lies a golden bliss,
Awaiting our arrival?

Fights are reserved for justice and might,
Perhaps there are times when surrender is victory,
When acceptance is courage,
When one sands up to face truth,
With a heart that beats on, brave and humble,
Knowing it's going to stop.

This was the last part of the poem now posted as 'The Pit' written on 5.2.2017 at DIY Patil Stadium. Updates have been made on 9.2.2017 at 5:02pm, to post it as a separate poem.

The Pit

He dances around the pit in vain arrogance,
Sure of himself, that he wouldn't fall in,
Justifying his every move, his every stance,
Until that fateful day when he takes a peek,

It takes not a moment to fall in,
And he falls, headfirst,
Into that abyss that's trapped millions,
All afflicted by that delusion,
That they lie above it,
Each having considered,
The ones within as lesser beings,

He rejoices the thrill of the fall,
Lands with a thud but forgets his pain,
Resuming his dance when within,
Unaware even that he's fallen deep,
He merely relishes all he sees,

He loses track of time,
Forgetting life outside the pit,
His days, his nights, even his dreams,
Confined to the pit,
He loses track of the days that roll by,
The darkness masking his hairs that've greyed,

He continues to dance within,
Sedated by the delusion that he is happy,
While rats of harm chew off,
A part of him each day,
Until one day when truth overtakes,
Confronting his now miserable self,
And he cries, head down, hanging in shame,

He looks back in time and vows to climb,
Out of the ravine that’s confined his soul,
He now hears cries of his friends,
Echoes of caring voices,
That'd shouted through the years,
Calling out to his soul that'd muted its ears,
He shuts his earns in agony,
But can hear clearly now,
And he begins his climb,
When his heart is too tired to pump further,
When his lungs are too old to breathe,
And his limbs are too weak to move,
And while his coils wither, ready to drop,
He drags it up the ladder he climbs,
Up towards the surface, where death awaits too -
He completes the climb and death smiles,
Taking a seat beside him,
He struggles t breathe and heaves a sigh,
Hoping to be carried away
His body succumbs and he wishes to die,
But something sticks onto it,
Like a cloth's tip on a nail,
Refusing to release the spirit,
From its lifelong misery,

Death takes a nap while his panting slows down,
And a smile plays upon his lips,
A smile not of triumph, but relief,
That he had a friend beside,
A friend who'd wait, to take him hand in hand,
When his last few days end,

The sun's scorching heat and its blazing shine,
Seem dim before his wisdom,
They all flock to him,
For guidance and help,
And he gladly gives them away,

--------
End 1*:

He's climbed out, yes,
But the shadows of misery,
Refuse to leave his eyes,
Even now, after years of peace,
And bathing in the light of the sun,

He knows now, as he's known forever,
That there' just one absolution,
When his friend who rests by his side,
Wakes and takes him away

--------
End 2:

He waits in patience as the light of the sun,
Bathes his wretched soul,
Healing his wounds and patching his skin,
Slowly to health again,

Those who come, seeking his help,
He sees their painful plight,
That all of them have been in there,
In pits of their own mistakes,

He's made the climb, he's taught them how,
And they'll now teach their friends,
While he sits back, redeemed and pure,
While death awaits his time.


*I've been taught by a writer I take inspiration from, that death must never be suggested as a solution, but for some reason, this poem led me there and to capture the train of thought that came to me, I let it be.
I am no guide, I can be wrong, and in deference to the words of the man who taught me, I write the second ending for all who take this poem seriously.

I started writing this poem on 5.2.2017 at DIY Patil Stadium at 6:15am or so, but the poem took a detour, ending in something else. The two endings written here were composed by 4:08pm on 19.2.2017 when I was looking for unpublished poems to update and publish on my blog at C504, H13, IIT Bimbay.

A Lesser Man?

You look down upon me,
With disgust or taking pity,
Sometimes to lend a helping hand,
Sometimes to thank the Lord's wand,
For sparing you the struggle,
Of coping with an obstance,
A hindrance to living life, nice and good,
The way you think we all should,

You cringe and scorn, even flee,
At the mere sight of me,
For the lack of a limb,
A handicap or a limp,

And you swim with your struggles,
Lashing about dodging your bubbles,
While I swim with mine,
Crawling at my pace, taking my own time,
We both grow old, weak and bend down,
Our hair greying and our egos fried to brown,
Under the heat of the ruthless sun,
With a stat you start to see,
That you aren't any different from me,

That when we're dead and dust,
When all that remains of the life we lived,
Are pictures, memories and grass,
That grows innocently upon our coffins,

Will the maggots that feed upon our coils,
Know us for the men we were,
Lesser, for our possessions, our thoughts,
Our abilities and strength?

Which man of any strength,
Can fight those worms,
That devour upon his dead flesh?
How much lesser of a man,
Am i than you?

Written at 5:05pm at Hill Road, Bandra. Updated at 1:07pm on 1.2.2017 at C504, H13, IIT Bombay

I Seek to Be*

I seek to travel this land,
To go far away from this haven I call home,
To lose myself in crowds,
While sticking onto that tiny inkling,
Of myself that remains,
To shed my name, my past,
And be a man that I can't even fathom,
To be stripped of everything,
That makes me the man I am,
And to look at what remains,
when I'm clad in the bare minimum,

I seek to not just explore cultures,
But to paint myself in them,
In everlasting ink,
Forming new layers of skin,
Upon my naked soul,

To drink in lives of my countrymen,
Who've lived in nameless corners,
To learn tongues that twist mine,
In ways I knew not,
To be called a brother by every man of this nation,
I wish to shed even my gender,
Nay, my identity as a human,
To peel off anything extra,
To see what little suffices to be called,
A man of this land,
Perhaps even an animal,
That my country is proud of.

Written at 6:27pm on 11.2.2017 (I don't remember where)
*This is the second poem of this title that I've written. The first one is here.