There’s a little less life, in life today.
I don’t want to be logical. I don’t want to be composed. I want to be unreasonable and ask for more. I want to be idealistic and impractical. I want to be consoled and empathised. I want to know that someone, somewhere gets it and is unconditionally supportive.
It would be a really boring life if we were to settle for mediocre. I don’t want to ever wake up one day and say to myself- Is this all there is?
Among the subtleties of human predicaments, I often like to imagine, is a lie that they had us believe. A lie- or a truth gone rogue- that was fed to us to keep the darkness away, which now ironically forms the very basis of it.
The fundamental error of our lives has been to let that lie settle into our souls, to place our bets on the belief that- purposeful things cannot end into nothingness.
If you are a wise old man
Who can tell right from wrong
Someone who knows about life
And, everything else beyond.
If you are someone who can cherish
The beauty of nature and its sounds
And, can love endlessly,
Without being love bound.
Then, know that I look for you
To come and give me hope
For, my friend, I am troubled
And am unable to cope.
But, if you are young, naive
Like me, as is fated
You are tired of life and death
And, all things related
You’ve left many things behind
And, some things have left you
You spent your life collecting memories
And, now that’s all that’s left of you.
Then, know that you’re not alone
And, we can still get through life
Be my friend, I am troubled
For even that will suffice.
Imagine the worst that can happen and know that it’s life and that it would still be fine.
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
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.
That we fail as beings.
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.
This poem is based on the following prompt:
Our prompt today (optional, as always), will hopefully provide you with a bit of Friday fun. Today, I challenge you to write a parody or satire based on a famous poem. It can be long or short, rhymed or not. But take a favorite (or unfavorite) poem of the past, and see if you can’t re-write it on humorous, mocking, or sharp-witted lines. You can use your poem to make fun of the original (in the vein of a parody), or turn the form and manner of the original into a vehicle for making points about something else (more of a satire – though the dividing lines get rather confused and thin at times).
“Life goes on”
He used to say it.
Despite everything, it goes on.
He used to shout it.
But, does it really?
And, you have no job
Your lover promised you love,
And, since is gone.
You have no friends,
And, your efforts are vain
You are alive,
But, living is pain.
Life goes no.
Is it life?
There is a brief moment of rest
Before the pendulum comes to zest
Where it prepares for another fall
A terrific east or terrible west.
And that is a blind, horrid moment
Not knowing your own opponent
Left or right, future or past
A peaceful quit or violent enrollment
This is where we find ourselves
Hung in a sad, faithless blend
At one of the top corners in silence
Waiting for the wait to end.
This poem is a riddle, in response to the prompt for NaPoWriMo Day 13. Other than that, it is also an acrostic poem- The first letter of each line, when read together, will spell a phrase. That phrase is the answer to the riddle. This poem is a little dark.
It is, maybe, of a different type
The one which has darkness inside
It is, maybe, not that different in fact
Sure, it likes to feel so
Yes, and it has a weird habit
Over and above the awkward life
Under any case, it won’t accept the truth
(Though, it maybe so)