I’m holding in a scream that no one hears,

Heavy with echoes from my younger years,

A childhood stolen, not misplaced,
I hung my head, took up no space.


Hands that should have held with care,

Taught me to vanish, not to dare.
As a mother, I had a purpose too,
But it’s to help them not need you.
What once defined me fades to grey.

My purpose shifts, then slips away.

At work, I shaped a thriving team,
Built up others self-esteem.

But now they soar, and I recede,

A rootless tree, without a need.

The pride is real, the pain is too,

Who am I, if not what I do?

The friends who once might understand,

Now drift like waves away from sand.
‘Come celebrate another year?’
There’s no response,
Like I’m not here.

I’m hoping somewhere in this ache,

A kinder self might start to wake.

Not mother, worker, friend, wife, child,

But something deeper, fierce and wild.

A soul not shaped by others' view,

But rising, honest, raw and true.

I walk through Hell in borrowed skin,

Each step a scream I keep within,

The past a shadow sharp and wide,

A ghost that never steps aside.

I claw for peace in books and breath,

But healing’s not the same as death,

To **** the pain is not the cure,

When wounds, though closed, still feel unsure.


They say ‘accept’, as if it’s small,

Like getting back up when you fall,

But trauma’s more like breathing air,

It happens, and it’s always there.

It haunts my dreams, over again,
A raging fire in silent shame,

It whispers when the room is still,
‘You’re here, but not - you never will.’


I tried to suppress, outrun the truth,
Rebuild a life worth living too,

But memory has teeth and claws,

It drags you back, highlights the flaws.

To ‘radically accept’ the fire,

Not to forgive, not to admire,

But to say: yes, this was done,

And not deny what I’ve become.


Yet every time I plant a stake,

The ground beneath me starts to quake.

I get up again and try stand tall,

My past still waits to watch me fall.


The path from Hell is not escape,

It’s standing still and facing shape.

It’s feeling grief without defence,

It’s mourning what did not make sense.

Acceptance isn’t love or peace,

It’s choosing presence piece by piece.

It’s letting sorrow have its day,

And living in spite, anyway.


So when the past claws at my door,

I need to breathe, feel to the core.

It’s not to fight, and not flee,

It’s just part of what makes me, me

When waves of sorrow crash and churn,
And hatred flares with no concern,
My breath is shallow, fists clenched tight,
The world turns red, then fades to white.

Just turn the mind, and start again,
But how? When crippled by this pain.
When everything in me screams ‘resist’,
I clench, I curse, I cease to exist.

They say try willing hands, be still.
Let go of judgment, drop the will.
But hands don't soften in the flames,
They brace, they fight, they burn with shame.

Half-smile, they say. Just curve your lips,
As if that tames apocalypse.
How shallow and false a smile can feel,
When nothing I touch seems quite real.

To notice, observe, and question each thought,
Is this truth or lies that I was taught?
Emotions’ power drags me down,
A riptide pulling where I drown.

It's hard to stand, to pause, to see,
When grief’s a weight around my knees.
To not believe the storm inside,
To see the truth, eyes open wide.

That is the work. The brutal art.
To touch the world with broken heart.
To turn the mind, again, again,
Despite being soaked in loss and pain.

So here I sit, breathing still,
With trembling limbs and fractured will.
But still I try, with hands unclenched,
A half-smile forced through teeth tight-wrenched.
Thoughts still howl, but I remain,
Willing hands in pouring rain.

Beneath my ribs,

Time folds in like broken wings.

A cradle of fear, and a silence that screams.
A ringing haunts the hollows of my ears.
And when I go there -
When memory dares to whisper,

I choose this time to listen.


It tightens.
Clenching, grasping, seizing pace,
Not gentle.

Not tender like nostalgia’s warm embrace.
But like a vice rusted shut,

Turning slow,

Squeezing the rhythm
 out of my chest,

Until my heart forgets
 how to lie.

The pain is not a metaphor.

It really hurts.

Like steel licked by flame,

then driven through
 the core of every truth
 I buried just to survive.
It enters through the breastbone,
and leaves through the spine,

A molten scream,

Bending time.
Splitting skin,
Forcing itself through the weapon turned within.

And then -

The trembling.

Not from cold,

but from release.

From poison rising,

bitter and ancient,

coiled in the gut
 like swallowed glass.
The lies I called truth.

The love I had to earn.

The blame I cradled
 in small, shaking arms,

too young to know
 it was never mine to bear.

I cry -
Not from pain,

but because it is necessary.

Like rain,

after too many seasons
 of drought and dust.

And my body -
Oh, it knows.

It shudders like a storm
 breaking open the sky,

Violent in its mercy,

washing me clean,

drop by drop

of rot I once called me.

And now it leaves -
Not softly,

Not kindly,
But it leaves.
And I am left,

Pleading,

Needing,

to let more go.

I am the ocean, some call me the sea
I have many names in different languages
I  was one of the first things to be created
Life upon earth began inside of me

I have been around for so long, I have lost track
Of how many millions of years or even billions of years
Many creatures were born and lived inside of me
So many are lost forever, never to be seen

Man has been fascinated by my might and power
He has travelled upon my back to far-off lands
And if I am in an angry mood, I drag all
Who rides on my back into my belly, deep down

I was there before the land was created, long before
I can swallow all of the land, ask the ones inside of me
I am not an angry, menacing monster, please note
I am the sea, a massive collection of all the waters

When the river empties itself into me, it trembles
Water is like me, but my mighr terrifies it
Yet the river knows there is no turning back
It empties itself into me and becomes a part of me

Wake up at 4.30 am every day except Sunday
When I wake up at 5.00 am, coz it's a day off work
Same routine day in, day out, like it or not
Coz there's no alternative, for a working man
Except to churn the wheel of the Daily Grind

Grinding away, Grinding away, Grinding away
Wake up at 4.30 am, and start on the pranayam
Then some light exercises, before it's time
For the morning prayers, which are a must
Then a bath followed by breakfast

Out of the house by 7.00 am is my target
To catch the public mini bus to my workplace
Arrive by 7.30 am, ready to start the work
Grinding away till 5.00 pm when it's time to leave

But I am grateful, grateful to the Almighty
I have work and earn a reasonable income
Meet the needs of my family, even if just the basics
Always be grateful that my wife tells me, and it's true

But it's not my ideal life, not at all
Some lucky people do have it all
A seven or eight-figure income, a happy family
And they work as and when they want
No Daily Grind For Them

For the rest of us, the Daily Grind
Grinding away, grinding away on the wheel of life
Till the Almighty says, Enough grinding done
Now join me in a new world where there is no Grind