Living Life

I stand, lost, upon the brink,

Staring through holes on this critter's face,

Woken, decades ago from the slumber of naught,

Dressed in a body with a name and face,

And pushed, unwilling, into this strange existence,

And before I can discover what's what,

To learn the way to live and reflect,

I'm pushed again, now by the speed of the crowd,

Into the realm of the so-called real,

Forced to run by the fuel of fear,

A dread of starvation, of pain and death,

I run, unwilling, in the race of men,

A race not to win, but to avoid being trampled,

And while I run, I turn and stare,

At those around, who dash, oblivious,

And while we sprint thus, tired and breathless,

Time gallops ahead, forever in the lead,

To catch my breath I stop and bend,

And see a pattern, a distinct trend,

‘Tseems familiar until watched with care,

Like the strangeness of the letters that make our words,

Life’s a thing sans name or form,

A blank sheet with some dots, to draw upon,

To fill with shades of colours we choose,

And space to use the way we please,

It’s a simple design when you observe, aware,

A pattern that repeats, strangely symmetric,

A construct that defines beauty, irony and honour,

And shows what you’ll find and where,

It’s a case of a feature buried in its opposite,

Of honour hidden deep within shame,

Of greatness in the subdued,

And unseen beauty in the ordinary,

Of philosophy and logic on full stomachs,

And of irrationality when driven by hatred or desire,

Of surprise behind the curtain of seeming knowledge,

Of love behind utter hatred,

Of noblest intentions behind unfriendly face,

And of great ones’ fall from grace,

Of happy ones bestowed with short lives,

And of those in pain, cursed to live long,

And while death is certainly the inevitable end,

We’re also forced to live and fend,

Life’s blank and untouched, yes,

But it crumbles when unattached to purpose,

And so, to avoid the hell that kills will to live,

Our hands are forced to forge life into meaning,

We’re not rational beings as we claim to be,

And while reason’s a language society approves,

We function, truly, on emotion besides hormones’ rage,

And forge reasons for our simplest acts,

And so we must live our lives,

Terrible lies, though they may be,

Feigning understanding of all that’s around,

And feigning pleasure at acquired tastes,

Falling in love with a maiden pretty,

Deeming sacred, a feeling petty,

We add more to our assumed purpose,

And live, aligned to that of hers,

I learn, as my beards turned grey,

That the least I can lie is to myself,

Accepting all that cannot be,

And choosing to live, forced, ‘til I drop dead,

And as the hooves of truth pursue my tread,

Threatening to sever hope’s thread,

Clinging dearly onto the armour of hope,

Choosing to resist my fall to purposeless abyss,

For I see, now, that the inevitable shall come,

But to live these days I’m forced,

I learn to give in, to life, not death,

Not to fight, but to cease to resist life.

An Ode to Unwritten Thoughts

Born from a quiver of my unaware heart,
Too abstract yet, to become art,
You danced there, in that hall where only I've been,
But fled before I could grasp what I'd seen,

I squinted to see you, and found no trace,
For you'd slipped, so quick, sans grace,
Gone art thee, from the clasp of my pen,
Never to return to my mental den,

Oh hasty fledglings of words unformed,
Why fly before your wings've formed?
You've run perhaps not to your death,
But to a realm where none shall know your worth,

You're mourned, my friends, oh have you ears?
And shall be, so, for several years,
Not just by me, your writer,
But by all who couldn't read your letters,

You've denied them that nameless pleasure,
That fills their souls when they read you, new and pure,
A moment they'd cherish, over and over,
As their fingers pass over your written inky critters,

Aah you could've had a home forever,
Immortal, you'd reign hearts sincere,
Living not one life but a thousand and more,
Born each time you're read, with renewed fervour,

You'd grow to endless depths like the sea,
All this you'd be, and still sit free,
On page of paper filled with my scrawl,
Ugly in writing but words so beautiful,

Oh words that bring treats to eyes,
That carry feelings through time and space,
Pray answer this pained query,
Do you feel no ounce of the pain you carry?

Eyes that read you, with tears well,
How then, could you leave me so cold?
I scream and run in vain effort,
Only to know you've turned to naught,

I build you a temple in my fickle soul,
And murmur a quiet farewell,
To words that I failed to tell,
And to it, I add my books that fell,

Words that'd give such glee my written lines never could,
Sealing within me and indelible blot,
An unrest that shall forever live on
In the inmost chambers of my within,

To thee, I leave these last few words,
So they may rhyme with the wordless silence,
That succeedes your slip from my flimsy fingers,
And your eternal visit to the dark alleys of forever.

The Walk to Freedom

I fear now, to come out of the chains that hitherto bound me. The feel of the metal link upon my arm has lingered for so long that I have begun to believe that that is the natural state of things.

I fear the natural uncertainties that define life, the choices that have, so far been made for me by someone who used me.. a someone who cared nothing for me, yes but yet, I fear facing them alone. I fear stepping out into the world, for, over time, I had trained myself into finding security in the arms that crushed a tiny portion of me each time. Such is the power of the venom of getting used, I suppose.

I carry the beating of my heart to step into a world I have seen forever but haven't known at all. It is a welcome fear, I see now, as I walk towards the light. A fear I should've had beside this excitement that fills me, years back, when I had the choice to not walk into these chords that bind me today.

But no matter, the past seems like a hazy illusion upon the parchment of time, and the present is clearer than ever, now that my eyes are finally free to see what they wish to, sans the conditioning of the pungent stench that filled my air all these years. Who cares what the past was? I am free now, and will be, for all time to come.