Saturday, October 13, 2012

Yellow Shorts

She sleeps in her yellow shorts,
The ones she bought with Him,
In the yellow Bennetton shop,
When she found her right size,
Number seven.

She baked the hilsa fish,
Wearing her yellow shorts,
As he smeared mustard paste on them,
She never washed the stains,
Fearing she would lose His only touch.

She found her fears a month back,
When her frail body failed to fight her fears,
The world told her, 
That a body once sold to love,
Can never be loved again.

A month back,
She sold her body to love,
For the first time.
Now she sleeps alone,
Under a blue striped blanket,
Wearing her yellow shorts,
In a white washed room,
With white wires in her ears,
Listening to Floyds Wish you were Here.

She had found, 
Her same old fears,
After waiting for years,
She wished for Him to be near.

Her slumber,
Her yellow shorts,
And white headphones,
Gave her a new world to dream.
She ran away from reality,
The claustrophobia made her scream.

She could not fight her fears anymore,
So she slept till reality came to knock on her door,
Reality posed a question,
The answer to which she did not know.

If love wanted your body today,
And after loving it,
Threw it away,
Would you let love,
Come tomorrow,
To love it again,
And give a chance,
To shatter it, 
A. g. a. i. n.

Fighting reality,
With her same old fears,
She chose to love Him,
Without Him being near.

She gave love a chance,
To shatter her again.

She washed her yellow shorts,
In a bucket full of water,
Mixed with antiseptic fluids,
And strong detergents.

She loved to hold on to her dreams,
And for the first time she loved her body
Even if the world didn't.

She slept under the blue striped blanket,
With white wires in her ears,
Wearing her yellow shorts,
And dreamt of Him to be near.

The yellow shorts may have lost His stains,
But her dreams remain embedded with them.
She chose not to get rid of them,
Even if it meant
That the world chose
Not to love her body again.

Saturday, October 6, 2012

If you don't have hatred…

It took me a second to hate the
Stroganoff on the cream colored menu,
And ten minutes to hate the
Strawberry peach yoghurt shake.

But hating people for what they do
I just don't think that is in my taste.

We come across multitudes,
Some we love, and some we hate,
But what…
If you don't have hatred?

Does it mean,
That you are a saint,
Or saying a lie,
Or fooling your inner soul,
And suppressing the truth inside.

Or does it mean you never had
The power to truly love?

If you don't have hatred
You don't have love.


I cannot talk anymore,
I just hear people chatter,
So I chatter in the noise.

I float across 
White cement,
Water pipes,
Grey cubicles,
Glass windows,
Central air conditioning,
RFID cards,
6 latte's,
White paper cups,
White hair,
Bitten chapped lips
Dark circles,
Dairy milks, 
Black pigment liners,
and Tyrells,
Knowing how alone can a person be.

I hear them talk,
So I talk,
About black plugs,
And good design.

I cannot talk anymore,
So I listen to Blackfield and Lacuna Coil,
And soak into Sigur Ros,
And write down lines,
From Into the Wild.

Others tried to define my identity,
I tried defining it too,
But while defining others identity,
I lost mine way too soon.

I cannot talk anymore,
So I scribble scrawly lines,
To know that I have my identity,
In cream papers of my notebooks,
That will get lost in time.

I don't want to be protected like my lines.