Blink. Gone.

This poem is dedicated to every single animal in the world, from every little ant to every human to every huge elephant.

Day and night, I quietly sit and whisper
to a tiny, shielded soul to fight,
radiating warmth and luminosity,
the only thing keeping me alive.

The shield shivers; it is ready to face
the eagerly awaiting world,
a little squeal from it inside,
a little crack appears on its shield.

Please don’t wake up yet,
before mommy comes back, dear.
I shall come soon with your first meal
while you battle for your right.

Cold stoniness swimming in the air
greets me when I rush back;
the nest is bitter and evil now;
the shield has been broken.

The bitten edges scream what I cannot face,
agony smashes me into a billion pieces
like an iron hammer to my naked skull!
But my emotionless body remains unhurt.

Broken as I am, I can smell the enemy’s stench;
I know he is looming in the corner behind me,
I know he will not harm me; like a statue he is waiting,
he is waiting for this torture to start again.

The Girl with the White Cane

This poem is dedicated to all the pessimists and those in mourning/depression/anyone who is upset out there, and specially dedicated to Asthaa. :)

In the morning, she steps out of her cottage
with her loyal white cane to guide her.

She walks on the beach, on the wet sand

that speaks the voices of a million spirits.

She smiles as the sand tickles her toes

as they laugh and play with each other,

and feels the rush of the waves to greet her

to the innermost core of her bones

and feels them lovingly lap the tips of her toes.

She listens patiently to what the waves have to say,

smells their ticklish salty fragrance,

and tastes their words on the back of her tongue.

She listens to the seagulls as they sing to each other,

and listens to the distant call of a fast sailing ship.

She feels the warmth of sunlight splashed on her face

and tastes his blessings on her tongue.

She sits down and picks up a seashell,

and holding it to her ear, she listens

to the speech of the shy, young spirit hiding inside.

She smiles as he whispers to her a secret

pleased that she is the only one who knows.

She touches the carvings and shape of the shell,

assuring him that his secret is safe.

She feels and listens to the pleasant hum of Mother Nature,

nestled deep within the core of the earth,

she places her hand on the surface,

and assures her everything will be okay one day.

She picks up her white cane

and walking back home, smiles as she remembers

today is her first day at school;

the school for the blind.

Read it everyday, Asthaa.

Silhouette

This poem is dedicated to Acintya, my dear, lovely, beautiful, perfect, angelic niece. I love you so, so much, and I always will. Your smiles and giggles make my soul melt. <3

The sunlight is peeking at us through the leaves

we look up – the sunlight is embracing the trees,
creating flickering iridescent swirls and gleams,
shyly watching us play like a lonely child.

It plays with our skin, turning the forest to gold
and makes zealous shadows chase us like poltergeists;
the colours of still life watch in amusement
as our delighted laughter echoes.

Together we bring joy to silent plant life;
we play with them when they rejoice,
we scoop up their tears as they cry,
while our eternal silhouettes dance.

Sculpture

Shapeless, unnoticed, invisible,

resting by the peaceful ocean all day long
a big piece of rock, like an embryo;
suckling its thumb quietly
in the safe, warm confinements of the womb.
Blind, it whiles away its time listening
to the crisp, calm voice of the rhythmic waves.
Was that its mommy?
Then sudden pain, difficulty, forced to the reality,
the waves gasping with pain and joy . . . then,
another soul, another unique creation born!
Nurtured, carved, with bruised, sweating, loving hands,
into a beautiful, unique, visible sculpture
to be admired by an awestruck crowd,
to leave its print on the world.

Translucence

This one's for you, Rose. The one who began my life. (She writes all the stories in this blog, if you didn't know it already.) My sweet Starter. :P (No, not the food. It's a long story. Inside joke.)

Hidden deep within nature’s castle,

I am her ancient beautician.
She created me with her own blood;
I am an immortal princess.

She disguises me, changes my colour;
she is selfless as a mother should be.
Like a spoiled child, I do not venture out;
Forever embedded in mommy’s womb.

You spear her, abuse her,
all in search of me, like a drug addict.
She resists as she can, but you annihilate her,
and kidnapping me, you claim me as your own.

You unlock the monster in you
whom you served, using me as the key.
It conquers and inhabits you;
to control your mind forever.

You amputate me, you torture me,
and stripping me of my clothes,
you secretly finger the pieces greedily,
flaunting your riches to drooling admirers.

In the light, I show you glimpses
of the monster you have become,
but the sun blinds you from realizing
the truth I scream out loud.

The Immortal Bride

I recently started sharing my dedications on my blog. Most of the time, when I write a poem, I have someone who repeatedly appears in my mind when I read it again. Why didn't I think of this before? This poem is dedicated to Kiran Susan. :)

An invisible bride stands tall and proud,

clothed in nature’s eternal wedding gown.
She turns a deaf ear to the cloud’s lectures,
and patiently awaits her groom.

She speaks to the pearls on her dress;
with her breath, she brings them to life.
She lets them play on the smooth material,
and explore the depths of its bubbly train.

She swims with the pearls often,
and like a liquid spirit, she creates more life,
bringing colour to the quiet world;
but she still arrogantly awaits her groom.

Her spirit lingers everywhere, searching;
searching desperately for her groom,
throwing tantrums at her mother and bridesmaids,
whether she will wed him one day, it is not known.

A page from the diary of a bleeding soul . . .

The ticking of the clock is so loud I can hardly restrain my hands from destroying it. I ball my hands into fists, as I wait – wait for it to begin. It’s a part of my daily routine – whether I liked it or not. I have long grown to get accustomed to the anticipation, the confinement, the repeated pain that’s never abated . . . there’s nothing new. My ears are searching for those footsteps that seemed to put emphasis on themselves. I sigh, as if a child had done some mischief. The door is unlocked and it creaks open, like the door to my life – opened whenever anyone wants to; I have no privacy. I don’t move, or even look up. I feel . . . what do I feel? This is the umpteenth time it’s happening. There is definitely some emotion buried somewhere, encouraging my heart to beat faster, synchronizing with the vampire’s footsteps.

He kneels down in front of me. I still don’t look at him. My eyes are stubbornly fixed on the stupid clock. He is a patient man; he waits for me to look at him. Irritably, he grabs my chin and turns my head to look into his murderous, drugged eyes. They show every seething emotion, mainly frustration. I look back calmly, which only angers him more. He wants me to cower or try to escape; he likes his victims to beg for mercy. I don’t give him that satisfaction.

Giving up, he holds my fragile form in a vice-like grip, pulling me to him. His hands are shaking with greed and eagerness. I close my eyes, as I always do for this part. I have no desire to witness anything he has planned for me. Every physical feeling and emotion registers in my mind, to be embedded in my memories forever. He rips off what is left of my clothes. I can hear the vampire’s breath gasping greedily on my soft belly, as he runs his dirty fingers across it, digging his nails into my skin. His searching tongue explores me greedily. More clothes being ripped. My face is being pushed down, my tongue is being forced to move with another slimy tongue. Hands – my father’s hands – which are supposed to be caressing my hair lovingly, are instead caressing the part between my legs lovingly – love for my body. They are digging deeper and deeper inside me like a slimy worm in my body, with the pure intention of pleasure and torture. A female voice screams shrilly, cruelly – is it me? I cannot think through the pain and disgust and wetness. My still-growing breasts are being shaped by the vampire’s wet hands – so hard, I can’t even scream.

And then it’s over. He leaves without a word, closing the door behind him. I am lying on my bed, completely defeated. Pain is playing through my body and I burst into uncontrollable tears, gasping - gasping to let the remnants of my soul breathe. The vampire has been satiated. Except this vampire desires not blood or flesh, but something much worse.

My soul.