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 Sep 2015 Anshita Mehrotra
thymos
you'd think enough had already been
written on the topic of being:
think again.
i can't bear to be without you,
it isn't worth the time,
over and over, thinking about, not being—with you.
Being and Time, Being and Nothingness, Being and Religion, Being and Event, etc etc
 Sep 2015 Anshita Mehrotra
Grace
You sleep in shudders,
In thundestorms and clouds,
You dwell in nightmares,
Unseen demons,
Wrapping you in shrouds.

You talk like madness,
You raise up ghosts,
You fear the monsters
Of children’s dreams,
Ever but feebly engrossed.

I hide your fears,
Behind closed doors,
I bring back summer in poems and
Repeat your favourite words;
An attempt to soothe the angered sores.

I fill others with your own lies,
A promise of better days,
Of words written in your own hand.
I deceive them of my cares,
Protecting your mind’s maze.

But still there are unhealed scars,
Quiet whispers and silent sighs
And I wish I could ease you
Into one night of rest,
If you could just close your eyes.
 Sep 2015 Anshita Mehrotra
Jasmin
Here’s to the father
who did his best for his daughter to feel secured,
who shielded her from the bad guys in her night terrors,
who worked hard everyday,
only to get shouted at for ‘excessively' asking
about the man in her life.

Here’s to the mother
who cooked the food her son loved,
who did the laundry every Wednesday,
who guided the steps he made,
who loved without asking for anything but to love her back,
only to get shut off of his life because he says,
“You care too much. I’m a man now!”

Here’s to the lady
who cries herself to sleep
for feeling guilty of what she did.
Here’s to you
who want her father to feel loved
but timid to speak the words
and to show him the truth,
so you yelled at him instead.

Here’s to the man
who stops his car to calm himself
who thinks of coming back to his mother
and tell her, “I’m a man now, but every man needs a woman, and it’s you my mom.”

Here’s to all the parents in the world
who freed and comforted us from the fiends
of our nightmare,
of our youth,
of our life.

Here’s to the young ones (or even not)
who think they are better off alone,
who think they are old enough to be on their own.
Here’s to all of us
who have been wronged.
(pendingletters // jl)
 Sep 2015 Anshita Mehrotra
nivek
its a truism
if you are a smoker
you will smoke your way to death

but what is not said
is the fact that it will not necessarily be the smoking
that kills you
Life bleeding from my view unheard is my pleading
Teeth seeding my skin in clotted drips where they feeding
I hive of onyx death, I face and uncertain last breath
A tattered drape hangs precariously my only escape.

I was the prey, not bled dry awaiting I was on display
Craving decayed my death moment now delayed
My sight began to fade, death was what I  portrayed
But as flesh torn and I wept rouge tears afresh.

Let me pass, let my life not torn, last thoughts of my wife
Her brunette hair her skin so soft I will never forget
I screamed in laughter,each weakened not what it seemed
Dead blood in my veins, only limited a moment remains.

Their folly of hunger as each faded, greed was now traded.
I reached out droplets rained, my movements strained.
Light eroded twilight as flesh tainted now slowly corroded
I myself now untainted I fell those now just an empty shell

Light shone through as a window opened to my delight
All was awash, charred ash fell like snow, I was still on guard
Scars were my honour all were expelled, now her necklace held.
She had feed on me, hunger had poisoned her soul now freed.
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