It takes a different kind of courage
to survive hope;
to resist the call,
of the bottomless pit,
to refrain from the comfort
of an always full glass,
to stay put on the ledge
when the wind nudges,
and all things to come
seem worse than what has passed.

It takes a different kind of stupid
to deny despair;
to embrace the notion
of affording second chances,
to echo the chant
that some things are meant to be,
to take solace in knowing
there are better possibilities,
and keep telling your worst
you haven't yet seen the best of me.

I'm afraid of the light
because I know what will follow,
I look at corners and worry
about what's hidden in hollows.

I fear climbing up too far,
for the fall down seems painful,
the endless spirals, the familiar ground,
just makes all things good more dreadful.

I feel dizzy when I look up too long
and I almost feel the earth give away,
every turn that doesn't bring doom
makes me anxious of the next day.

I know I can't keep staring into the water
waiting for the abyss to swallow it whole,
but every strike of a match is a reminder,
of how easily it can all go up in smoke.

I wake up with trepidation,
and a veiled sense of hope,
telling myself I've avoided disaster
telling my head, this is our new home.

In the past decade,
I have stepped past
the metre of words,
and moved into colorful,
ornate constructions.

Come to use clauses,
taken grueling effort
to reason in taut,
but often found fraught,
elaborate expressions.

So is it any wonder,
I now find it confining,
after failed attempts
to stick to words that need
discipline, rules and timing?

It took a lot of courage
for this form of depiction,
without the cover of metaphors,
leaving little room for
mixed interpretations.

Now my tongue is loose,
and my fingers have found release,
so I shall explore this discourse,
and for a while set aside,
my want to write good poetry.

Like the bird that sweeps away
desperate to get away from the tree,
and the butterfly that rattles in its cocoon,
wanting to spread its colors, be seen,
like the paper boat, in its flimsy skin,
waddles down the bumpy watery lane,
I too only looked to go, leave,
I too only looked to escape.

The confines of the past were tight,
like the arms of a sweaty friend,
I did not like so much anymore -
no, I didn't like what the friend did represent.
And in those arms I wriggled and cursed,
no coffee bean or dandelion green
could surpass my level of bitter,
and curse I did,
foul, rank and obscene,
like the gory scene in a massacre movie,
I only slashed and whipped my arms around
to rent every shred of where I belonged,
not wanting to accept everything that I had been.

Self-loathing; in hindsight,
and with a dose of self-esteem,
seems like the mirror
you punch with your fist,
and when down your arm
the blood drips,
and even when your reflection is contorted,
you keep looking.

It seems like the shrill caress
of nails on a board,
it hurts your blood
and shakes your brain cells,
but you can't stop doing it
even you can't take it anymore.

So that sweaty friend released me,
or released myself when I flew,
up, away, so far past
everyone and everything I knew.

Only I walked into a cold river bed,
into a quicksand was where I had led,
sinking so fast into an abyss so strange,
I couldn't hear anything past my thoughts
that kept roaring in my ears,
"This was a mistake!"

Life has a tricky way of
making you realize,
wisdom comes after the pain,
truth only follows lies.
So I fell hard, and thrashed around,
looking for my friend's sweaty arms,
I wanted to be held, comforted,
I wanted to remember it all,
the ups and downs, the regrets and promises
I wanted to recall the good days,
I wanted to go home and course-correct,
I wanted to forgive, and learn to let-go
I wanted to mend my ways.

A galaxy of infinite stars,
the boundless stretch of green,
arms spread wide,
transcending dimensions,
that's how this wait feels.

Not second, or third,
countless chances,
of corrections, overwrites,
and destiny's edits,
let's term it a new beginning
and let go of the fear that
it is only the continuation
of the chapter you hate.

Like the spectrum of color
on every bubble that flies,
let us also look for magic,
in hollow ***** that hold nothing,
but only the reasons
we look for,
to survive.

Flip the page
and write again
the story has yet
to find its end.

Turn the clocks
and save the bell,
there are many things
we are yet to tell.

Make those lists,
and keep them long,
they'll soon be forgotten,
we are not that strong.

Wish, dream, commit,
don't hold yourself back
may be you'll disappoint,
but yourself some slack.

There is magic in the air,
in every clink and cheer,
there is no room to despair
when it is a happy new year!

Buzzzzz! It rang,
loud and shrill,
startling me from that
comfortable sleep-phase;
where everything is half-done,
and you're not fully numb
to the prods and distant noises.

Chasing this time table
that has been planned for me,
each day has an agenda,
and each decade gives me a story;
unmet deadlines, lost promises,
commitments and buckets-lists
an archived dream.

Slipping on shoes,
as the door hits my back,
walk into a day a dislike,
a place that leaves me forlorn;
no amount of fairy lights
or frames on the wall can
make a house feel like home.

And buzzzz! it rang again,
jerking me awake,
harsh light of a new sun
slicing through the cold day;
no ego to salvage or pride to soothe,
another the chance to start over,
that was all it took.