Life, a stage

When down in the depth of despair, and depressed

You write, you sing, you create, to impress

But have you ever wondered, the lost power of your words

Sometimes, less is more and more is less

Daily you cry your silent song

You wail, you weep from dusk to dawn

Then you dust yourself and put your mask on

Coz at all costs, the show must go on


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“He touched me here. He groped me so roughly, it hurt.” said Renu

“It was scary” shared Vinita. “He used to shut my mouth so that noone heard the screams”

Ritika looked around the room. She didn’t identify with any of the women. Or their stories. In fact she pitied them. Sympathised with their miserable existence. She wished she could help them or relate. But she couldn’t.

She was never abused. She was loved. Adored. So what if she was 8 and he was 38. She was in love. And if it was ok for the prophet, why wasnt it for everyone else?

Let’s end the session here, she suggested in her usual micromanaging tone. Ofcourse she wanted to be in control. She was used to it. She was always in control. Wasn’t she?

Winds of change

Swooosh… I go through plants and trees

A wind, a tornado, a gentle breeze

Deftly from one intensity to another

I switch between with utmost ease

Sometimes sans control, sometimes at will

Sometimes the victim, at others, ready to kill

I swooosh through my days without a care

Like a bad habit or a mandatory fire drill

Sometimes I agree I stick to the norm

I’m music and love and cool when you are warm.

But then I flare up… With intensity doubled

I fight… I cry… I kick up a sand storm

When will I stop moving? This wasted life who will see?

Shadows of my memories, volcanoes of my past

Trap them, destroy them or let them be?

After all, aren’t they just versions of me!

Black day white

Don’t leave me, don’t go, don’t let go of my hand

Don’t stand there, far away, and lie that you understand

The pain, the trauma, the agony I go through

The fear that daily this list will have something new

Something black. Something grey. Something dense in every way

Something hard. Something sharp. Something mean that on and on you harp.

The pain will go. The trauma will pass. Tomorrow I’ll be a new lass.

Happy as a button. Talking nineteen to the dozen

Enjoying the day… Come whatever may

Until, “… Then what was the big deal…” I hear you say!

Jigsawed life…

Broken people we are

Lying scattered on the floor

Like pieces of a puzzle

Or the socks my dog tore.

Lay them out in order

Pick the best pieces

Patch them together

To form a complete us.

The rest of the bits

To keep or to throw

Or make another person

With the same core.

Stop. Rewind. Repeat.

Why do I do this to myself? Over and over and over and over again… Like a giant wheel that refuses to stop. I see the same sights. Sights that once enticed me with the adrenaline rush of being something new, good bad or ugly… Today kill me with the repetitiveness. One would think that I’d be numb to it by now… Like an album song that suddenly becomes viral and is literally everywhere including as the background score to your dream.

But no… I’m not numb. I’m still affected. And badly. But yet I do nothing to change it. Or maybe I do, but I don’t do enough. It’s like I enjoy the torture.

Be is being affected by other’s comments or opinions, finding abusive partners, making plans and failing… Everything is on loop mode. Like the playlist you once created on your old ipod that you’ve been too lazy to change and now the familiarity breeds as much contempt as it does happiness.

Should stop. Should say enough. Until then, let the masochist in me enjoy. Sorry girl. He wins again.