Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Barefoot May 2012
Stories. Them stories.
They are a beginning, a middle and an end.

They are a birth, a life and a death.
Sometimes more births, lives and deaths.
They are a love, a friendship and a relationship;
Sometimes two or more or many.

They are a flow, a narrator and a narration,
They are sadness, happiness, joy and frustration.
They are dreams, journeys, desires and possessions,
They are successes, failures, achievements and destinations.
They are let-downs, demotivation, inspiration and motivation.

They are drama, comedy, horror, tragedy and action.
They are people, personalities, thoughts and passion.

I am a story
And you are a story.
Make me listen to you
And I will sit quietly and listen.
Like a puppy eyed curious two-year-old
I will beg you not to stop halfway.
I might ask a few questions
And nod a few times,
Maybe laugh with you at the saddest of situations
And cry with you in the happiest of times.

I will immerse myself in it,
As you go from the very beginning till the end
And look back at you with satiated curiosity
And deep understanding of what just happened and how.
Now that you are done;
Will you listen to me now?
Barefoot Apr 2012
A wide open field
Where grass blows in the wind.
A narrow stream gurgling,
From a distant waterfall bubbling.

The dancing umbrella cut dress,
Lined sleeves with ruffling frills
The swooshing long tail of a neatly tucked bow
That follows her toes wherever she goes.

A beige sheet of starched cotton spread
On the grassland by the dried riverbed,
A bottle of water glistening
With the spring sun listening
To that song that floated around
As she moved on her toes;
Round and round and round.

Wild flowers lying low
Swinging with the water flow.
And the song goes like this:

Only if I could have a kiss,
Now that is the only thing I miss
From your lips to mine
Under this spring sunshine.

Because I love me in this dress
As you loved me in this dress,
And made me love you
By making me fall in love with myself.

As they dance the ruffles caress my face
Which reminds my cheeks of the trace
That you left with your palm,
Caressing me till I become
The girl who loves herself because
There will be, there is and there was
Within her this overwhelming love
Of a kind whose definition she didn't know of.
This makes my feet dance in joy...

...Because I love me in this dress
As you loved me in this dress,
And made me love you
By making me fall in love with myself.

And there were feet on the grass
Turning round and round.
And there was a song of love
Under the spring time sun floating around.
And then there was a dress with ruffled sleeves.
Barefoot Apr 2012
I look inside my magic box.
I stare at the pretty things I see,
I read the pretty things I find lying there,
I listen to the pretty sounds it makes.

It takes me wherever I want to go,
It tells me whatever I want to know.

It shows me things I have never seen,
It takes me places I have never been.

It brings me people I want to meet,
It has more food than I can ever eat.

It lets me speak what I want to say,
It brings me news through night and day.

I look inside my magic box.
I stare at the pretty things I see.
And when I want to touch and feel all these,
It just stares back at me.
Barefoot Apr 2012
You say you love me.

Then take me to a beach
Where the sea can rush over our feet,
Again and again as we curl our toes into the sand.

Then make me see the endless ocean
And the wide stretch of sand,
Dotted by coconut trees hanging low upon us.

Make me hear the loud crashes of the waves
And the quiet lapping of the water,
Disturbed only by the sound of you and me breathing together.

I will feel small but know how big your love is.
Barefoot Apr 2012
I want to write something;
I want to write something now.
And I am going to write it.
Here. Now. I write.

There are some people who buy new phones,
Some buy cameras and some buy laptops.
They change the things they have.
I changed too.
I chopped the hair off my head.

Some people leave the place they live.
For a short while, sometimes for long.
They travel far and wide, see different things.
I saw different things too.
I chopped the hair off my head.

Some people write. They write so many things.
They write stories. They write poetry. They write songs.
And some write blogposts.
I wrote a part of my life.
I chopped the hair off my head.

There are people who love to get pampered.
By spas, salons and exotic oils.
Many a time by loved ones and pets.
I pampered myself.
I chopped the hair off my head.

Some people like speed.
They ride cycles, motorcycles, cars on long wide highways.
Some ride chariots in their dreams.
They like the rush.
I felt the rush too.
I chopped the hair off my head.

Some people play music.
They play guitar, piano, drums and some sing.
Some play anything they can find near-by.
I sing too.
But I still chopped the hair off my head.

I have seen people play for hours.
They play cricket, they play football, they play games on the x-box.
And some play mind games with other people.
I hardly play anything,
But I chopped the hair off my head.

Some people cook, eat and drink.
I love to cook, eat and drink too.
Even then I chopped the hair off my head.

People say, she has gone mad to have done so.
People say, she is gay to have done so.
People say she has insects in her head or diseases in her body to have done so.
And I had just chopped the hair off my head.

Madness it seems; but freedom it is.
Gay it seems; but a deep love for self it is.
Insects and diseases it seems; but healing from sickening monotony it is.
A style statement it seems;
"Oh you are in a design school! Its cool how you guys do crazy stuff!" ,
But a part of the inner being it is. It was and it will be.

Simply put, fun it is,
Living it is, loving it is.

Going bald it is.

— The End —