I choose
What days I will work

I refuse to be a slave
To a system

I have the freedom to choice
Where I want to go
When I want to go there

Three days a week
At most

I will show up to work

I don't believe in a 40 hour
Work week

That is what my father does
What a terrible existence...
Well he needs the money

And with more possessions
More money is required
To pay for them

The car payments
The country club

This is my time
And I go where I please
Most of the time

And I do it
Without any guilt
This is my life

I remember when this guy
Told me I should work
40 hours a week

I don't think so
This is my time
This is my life

I won't change

Dolefully trudge to my chamber this night.
Carrying burden of this inimical plight.
Scrawling as a means to drop this weight light.
But alas, who will read these words that I write?

Lead us, Evolution, lead us
Up the future's endless stair;
Chop us, change us, **** us, **** us.
For stagnation is despair:
Groping, guessing, yet progressing,
Lead us nobody knows where.

Wrong or justice, joy or sorrow,
In the present what are they
while there's always jam-tomorrow,
While we tread the onward way?
Never knowing where we're going,
We can never go astray.

To whatever variation
Our posterity may turn
Hairy, squashy, or crustacean,
Bulbous-eyed or square of stern,
Tusked or toothless, mild or ruthless,
Towards that unknown god we yearn.

Ask not if it's god or devil,
Brethren, lest your words imply
Static norms of good and evil
(As in Plato) throned on high;
Such scholastic, inelastic,
Abstract yardsticks we deny.

Far too long have sages vainly
Glossed great Nature's simple text;
He who runs can read it plainly,
'Goodness = what comes next.'
By evolving, Life is solving
All the questions we perplexed.

Oh then! Value means survival-
Value. If our progeny
Spreads and spawns and licks each rival,
That will prove its deity
(Far from pleasant, by our present,
Standards, though it may well be).

Every time I rest my head on his chest, I could hear echoes of all the people who had let go.

I didn’t cry when you left
Neither did I say anything to anyone
I just kept quiet for a few days

But, I've observed everything
And suffered even more

That blue shirt,
Which you often used to wear
Is ironed and arranged
in the wooden closet

Your specs are still kept
on the television..
And the umbrella ..
waiting for the rainy season..

In The last rains
We were soaked and drenched
I did not touch your umbrella ..
I know,
That you do not like
If  your things are misplaced

I’ve told the cobbler
To mend your old shoe
Your watch is repaired
With a battery brand new

Taylor has stitched your pants
With a lining inside
And
Your bed is done
And mom waiting by its side.

Dad ....
I know
You will be tired by the journey
But this time,
Please stand still
And Rest for some time
I will take off your shoes
And massage your legs
To make you de-stress
Whatever you’ll say
I'll do it all
Just stand still
And be there

You know what dad ...
The last time you left ..
You left us shocked...

Ananya

I'm a *******
I guess
but i always thought of me
as a human canvas
your blank slate
do I like the pain?
I've always had a high tolerance
but do I like it?
I guess not
but when it boils down to it
I'm happy
to be your punching bag
the dead air
which you fill with songs
older than time
these scars
are an ode
to your life
a beautiful poem
even the ones
which you can't see
I'm more like a billboard
than a man
but my ad space
will always be reserved
for you