Unsettling Metamorphosis

"Blur, everything's a blur.

        Unclear, there's a fog in my Brain.

                I can't sift through my own thoughts.

                         Which ones are pretence, Which ones are mine.

                                  I lose myself, the minute I'm Abused.

                                  Is there no way out of this mental mess.    

                          I am tired of my brain, it feels heavy; no amount of asprin will help.

                I need a break from all the breaks; these breaks never help either.

        How long before I fit in?

How long before I am comfortable being in my own skin?"

I wrote this poem in the dead of the night and I didn't have any paper to write on. Again, letting go of my previously held notion that technology kills creativity. I believe, as for now atleast, that a poem as a product appears as a result of your thoughts. So whenever I read a friend's poetry, I ask what they were thinking about. So, when my friend asked me, "So, what were YOU thinking when you wrote this poem.?", I replied, "Precisely what I've written." At this age, everyone is constantly battling their own demons and no one knows where they stand. Your religious, political and social views will change from what they are today, we are told. But why wait for later. Why can't we accept them as permanent and move on with life? Then there are our own personal beliefs that need to be "rectified" by someone else. It is all too overwhelming for now, isn't it?

Untitled

Love, ah Love!

I never thought it could sway me so.

Is it even love, I wonder?

Maybe yes, maybe no.

But it surely feels like it~

The cliched things that lovers do.

I walk around as if in daydream

I hear people talking

But all I think about is You.~

I always thought myself Logic's sister,

Now, I am Passion's best friend.

I am still a part of reality, true;

Yet I find solace in daydreams.~

It is hard being so far apart.

Sometimes, the distance even pains me.

Then I hear your voice,

You calm me somehow.~

How could I, a wanna-be feminist,

Be so delirious!

Is it really even Love, I wonder?

Maybe yes, maybe no.

I am still wary of surrender,

But so are you.~

All I know that I want to be with you.

If not in person, I want to hear you.
My only wish is to hold your hands,
Very simple, you say.
But wishes of two people,
who are so far away can only be that way.
Is it really Love, I wonder?
Maybe yes, maybe no.
But whatever it is baby,
It makes me happy either way.

Why I fell in love with J.A.

I feel bad for Jane Austen. I really do. Hers was such a remarkable life. It was a life that one can look as a model. Love does not always have to end in happiness and of both parties ending up together. I do not know what love is. I do know that it does not make you equip you with a source of everlasting happiness. But what it does do is make you a better person. It will make you achieve excellence. It will make you aim for things higher than yourself and of thing that you alone could never imagine. It gives that assurance that whatever you do there is always someone who will love you irrespective of everything. And that is how I saw her write. It seemed like I was there watching her with her pen. I loved the line, “I shall live by my pen.” It is a very brave thing to say. Especially when we take it in reference to someone like me. I loved everything about her. She got up early in the morning and wrote. And how satisfying it must be! Devoting yourself a particular time. I loved the fact that she did not immediately look for perfection in her writing. She was not wary of making corrections. I always am. I never stop to reconsider my work. In fact, I hate re-reading everything I write for betterment purposes. I used to think that this was how my piece was supposed to be. But now I will be honest and say I was taking a short way out. It takes hard work to better your work. Her way of cutting was most extraordinary! And she knew exactly what was to be written. It takes time to achieve whatever you want. And immense patience. My constant question is how one gets that amount of patience. It seems unnatural. But I suppose that you acquire that as you go along something you truly love. And that applies to humans as well, I think. ‘Epiphany-ied’ sense of relationships. I agree that one can write better after you have experienced something. But that is in contradiction as well. What really touched me was that tom named daughter Jane. How beautiful a tribute is that? And in the end she became what they both wanted- Jane Lefroy. 

Why today?

mIt's such a simple question.

Why today?

I can delay it further

Till there is no further to go.

All I have is today, and

I may not get another chance, and 

If I let go

Then there will be nowhere to go.

No one to blame.

So whenever I face 

Another bout of Procrastinasia

And the devil asks me

Why today?

I will say, Why not?