When

It’s not when things go wrong
It’s not then,
Things go wrong all the time
And, so, it’s not then.

It’s when they are fine.
When they don’t go right.
But, they are supposed to
And thus are
Fine
It’s then
It’s when a shriek inside
Is silenced by denials
When a time of beliefs
Is turned by dials.
When heads are down
And hearts are tired
Of being buried.
Of being unheard.
Of being dead.

It’s then.
It’s then.
That we fail as beings.

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One Two Three Four

Here is another poetry project. This one took me a lot of time. It actually represents three poems. How it works:
Poem A (One Two Three Four): Start from the beginning. Read every line of each stanza
Poem B (One Three): Start from the beginning. Read only first and third line of each stanza
Poem C (Two Four): Start from the beginning. Read only second and fourth line of each stanza

Each combination would be a different poem.

Two kids sitting in a park
Near the age-old oak tree
Their minds wandering to where
Flows a river of tranquility.

They could read each other’s minds,
The air of thought is felt
To say, they would not dare
The words wouldn’t be spelled.

They would want to stay silent.
For in silence, there was love,
People would call them mute.
In language, there was rut.

But, no one knew how it was
At that place of silence
It was an escape of their suit.
To where there is no violence.

They lived their life like that
Take me there, I beg, I say
In a hope to live without words
Take me to that heavenly play.

In a hope to maybe run away
I wish to live, I wish to escape
In a silent anonymous curse
I wish to die, I wish today.

Our Revolutions

Us. We.
We can never be part of a revolution. We live in crowds. We shout in whispers. We see through masks. The only ones we kiss are our deaths. The only deaths we face are our lives. Our existence, our presence revolves around the same axis as our absence.
We exist in boxes, we sleep in one, we walk in one, we are sick of one. But, we aren’t gonna break one, the box, for we are scared of living without it: alone, outside.
We are desperate, sad, needy people. We are begging for a revolution. But, we aren’t gonna get one. Not that we lack ideas. No. Only none of us, no one from us has the guts to start one. We can never be part of a revolution.

Memories

Memories are worse than bullets
This is one of my favourite quotes. I wish I had written it or at least, something as magnificent as this. It is fascinating to see how it captures so many emotions in a single line.
You are going in a local train and it stops at a particular station, you had once got off at with someone. You get off at it again, though it is not your station. You get off because you are suddenly overwhelmed by nostalgia and you just cannot, not go there again.
You sit at the same spots where you used to sit together before. You eat at the same cafe, you buy things from the same store. You climb the same stairs where she had almost fallen down on once before. And, you just look the other way, smiling a little.
Now, you look at the gate where you had left her. You imagine her looking back at you before leaving. She turns around slowly, like she had once when you had called her name for the first time; the first time you had met her. She turns around and she comes back to you running and hugs you. You ask her to stay, but she just has to go.
And, she goes. And, you? Years later, you just stand there, imagining her coming back.
Memories are worse than bullets.

Last Station

I take a train
Everyday to that last station
On my line
And, I know
I’ll meet you there.

But, do not
Do not meet me there.
Do not
Do not wait for me.
For I do not want you to
Regret
Waiting for your date.
I will come.
But, it might be too late.

Travel with me.
Instead
Sit with me
On the ground
As we go through a myriad stops
Twisting and turning
Towards the last station.
Stay with me
Till that last station.
And beyond.

Anarchy

The problem is that we believe.
That we search for reasons.
That we cannot accept chaos
That we cannot see souls randomly floating around
In anonymous expanse.

The problem is that we continue to believe.
That we continue to search.
That we continue to be disappointed.
That we continue to be tortured not seeing the scales
Balancing in themselves.

The problem is that our beliefs aren’t that strong
That our search is not that exhaustive
That chaos is not that accommodating
That by the time we wake up to reality
We would have lost our chance.

The problem is that we are still hoping
That we believe this poem is a lie,
That I am waiting for you to prove it to me
That I am waiting for you to come and tell me
That I am waiting.

Opportunity Cost

Dark clouds
Filled the ashen sky
Slowly, calmly, mildly
Increasing their horror
In light, circular movements,
And, a flock of birds was lost.

A bird
Emerged through the darkness
Rushingly, fleetingly, nervously,
Tearing the horror apart
In quickened straight nudges
But, at what cost?

He emerged alone.
Alone.
People called him resiliant.
And, he was.
But, at what cost.
A flock of birds was lost.

Economics Finals are on.

NaPoWriMo Day 30: Rewind

No, it wasn’t dark.
When you were alive
Shows me how it was
A walk in the park,

Before it was to start.
How it all began
There, I see it again
A walk in the park

The old familiar arc.
The benches we sat on
And, I am back there
A walk in the park

In response to the optional prompt for NaPoWriMo Day 30:

For the last day of NaPoWriMo, I’d like you to try an odd little exercise that I have had good results with. Today, I challenge you to write a poem backwards. Start with the last line and work your way up the page to the beginning. Another way to go about this might be to take a poem you’ve already written, and flip the order of the lines and from there, edit it so the poem now works with its new order.

Original poem: A Walk