Message Of the victim

They uttered nothing
But I could read those eyes…..
those eyes once had lauded my beauty
are now retreating to descry my face

humble words have no meaning at all
when the eyes don’t reflect their trace
someone can write pages on a looker
but countenance devotes the best

I was tired being said everything will be okay
I knew those consolations were futile
the castle of my dream was slivered so hard
there wasn’t any brick of hope to reconcile

I was told not to look at a mirror
in front of which I had spent hours at one time
It took me too long to defy my guts
and confront my fate with a new regime

The acid they threw burnt my skin
they wanted me to die in that pain
but least they knew about my nerve
I could neck all the pain and still sustain

A victim I became, left with no charm
but ohh gentle men believe my words
appeal of a woman is her beautiful heart
the face you carve for is as perishable as yours

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Sick of studying

“I wish I were the ‘Peter Pan’
youth would never have come to me
there’d be no one to grieve over

no one to compete there’d be

no worry, no hurry
I could laugh my heart out
whenever and wherever I want
I could love anything I see
and feel no shame to preconize that

I’d be told ‘cute’
not ‘slut’ upon wearing short
neither I’d be compared
to any vulgar note
There’d be my ‘admirers’
rather than ‘stalkers’
I could fly free everywhere
without checking the calendar. ”

Everyday on the study table
I stumble upon these thoughts
the ghastly stage of life following early years
and then on the wall staring against me
my schedule exhales with heavy irony

The Martyr’s Widow

Zephyred evenings, snowy breeze,
cups of coffee, woolen squeeze,
caressed rim, slurping sips,
sunless mornings and clenched fists
so many winters witnessed us together
clicked our dalliance taped your promises
but a winter would come hard of belief
snatching all my happiness left me bereaved
one day you set off promising another winter
and returned in a coffin with pride no lesser
the pride of your sacrifice turned the zephyr
and my winters remained snowless forever
my hair turned grey with your memory relics
and few lifeless frames on the mantelpiece
I grew old with pride yet with a shadow
of never being called ‘the martyr’s widow’

Eyes with lies

Shameless eyes
Deprived of sleep
Looking for a match
Out of a creep

Hunting down dreams
To find a new guide
But souls won’t catch fire
With tears inside

shut them down
Let the drops drip
Let them flood the cheeks
and drift o’er the lips

Let them damp the fake
mask on my face
I will cast new colours
to rejoin the pace

The Poem on You

Dew drops bedecked on the sleek petals
or when they slither down fast…..

The beauty a beholder finds in it
or the lure of gaping it till the last ….

The oblique rays of the winter sun
on the brittle ice or on the tristful eyes…

Vagrant butterflies swiftly racing
in a caged bird’s sweven or in the skies….

Now the vacant I am
running out of atticisms
to portray you on the canvas of my sights…

These clichés I can’t use
to let the world know
that my love for you is beyond every heights…

The world may praise
the words of praise
the passion as colors and love as hue…

But the canvas hid
the blotches of tears
as the paint-brush painted the poem on you…