I keep my words to myself.
Buried under the earth.
Quiet, they say.
Don't you ever want to talk to us?
Open your soul to us?
And in moments like these,
A few may escape.
That barely tells the story.
That rarely makes sense.
Like a broken record.
But are you listening?
Sometimes these whispers grow strong, almost to a blaring cacophony, of an endless discord between the heart and the mind, laying waste to my sanity that was once revered, so, so long ago.
And as the mind drifts over the edge, overlooking a bottomless chasm, there is little light that shines from within, battling what is left of a person that was whole.
But you watch from your safe confines, tucked away in your niche of pretentiousness, as I fall into a fathomless hole, a tut-tut for the 'poor soul', words that could mean less and for you, life goes on.
But what was lost was that what could be found, but you let it fall.
Little do you know that these words
Can silence you,
Leave you questioning the ignorance
That you believe is true.
My reality is as real as yours.
So don't you dare pretend,
Everything happens behind closed doors.
This oppression I speak of,
And the rage I harbour,
Screaming from the bottom of a well.
The frustration and the sheer exhaustion, to be counted,
Begging to be heard.
There is a war,
You may not be aware of.
Pride and dignity stripped away,
On these unseen battle grounds.
You can chose to be blind,
But you cannot call me insane.
This is real,
And this is happening,
Whether you like it or not.
© Meenu Syriac
She is a storm, an earthquake
Loud and thunderous.
That relentless, fervent soul,
Spitting flames that burn you whole. Dreamer, believer
With roots that entwine deep with the ground
And branches that tower high above.
She can walk on fire,
Leave you breathless for more.
She was once you and me,
Trading dreams for convenience,
Love for dignity,
And freedom for survival.
But for every chain that bound her,
Every cage that held her,
She rose higher and higher.
A warrior stands under the burning sun,
And somewhere beyond the valley,
The rhythm of a revolution
Begs to be heard.
She has a voice now,
And she will never stop.
Heavy hearts, we're lost in the fog,
Paving roads to places unknown.
Growing sorrows, skyward bound,
Forever fleeing, like a vagabond.
If our arms could feel the weight of our souls,
And our names could reveal the battles fought,
Here, we are survivors
Sunken ships have greater stories,
Some even worth the gold.
With time, comes healing.
With love, comes cure.
Where is the pianist in me
Where is the overly-enthusiastic musician
Who'd pick up any lyrics
And make it into a song.
Where did I lose my words
Where did I lose my will to write
Where did I lose my courage
To cry my heart out on a piece of paper
And bleed my fingers on a guitar-string.
Where did I lose my random scribbles
Where did I lose my unabashed thoughts
Which I would often lash out on empty canvases.
When did my creative block
Turn me into a mechanical machine
And make me forget that
My right brain works better than the left one.
Where did I lose my faith
In this ****** human race
Where did I lose my friends
And all those who loved me?
Where did I lose my
and when did I lose myself
To anxieties and the blues?
Is this real or a dream?
Where did I lose my courage to live?
Can someone find it for me?
I should stop over-thinking.
Winged desires take flight for the crimson skies,
As we toy with the strings of our hearts.
Fingers slide across my bare back,
Like wind that gently glides over still waters.
And as the skies mellow into a darker hue,
Under a blanket of stars, we rise and fall,
Breathless and alive.
Somewhere written along the fading horizon,
Is poetry that we created,
You and I.
Who knew that love could be chaotic.
Yet we danced in perfect synchrony.