the way you walk is the way i walk
the way i talk is the way you talk

we are alike and different
we are different and alike

you are becoming me and yourself
i have been changing through you

you, nicholas, are (in) my life
until i...

you're spotting me
in a bubble made of
dreams

poke me to love you

My mother had that certain look
I could see it in her eyes
It was then I started wondering
Was my dad telling little white lies?
I know they both liked a tipple
My dad had his beer at night
But mom went to bed at ten o'clock
And then turned off the light.
My dad worked as a carpenter
It was his chosen trade
He built a little cabinet
And it was beautifully made.
When mom got tired and had her fill
My dad he stayed downstairs
In that cabinet he had a hideaway
He thought mother was unaware
Then little did he realise
She has known him for many years.
He could never fool my mother
She just new his whiskey was there.

You are the Sky ,
You are the River .
Soar high , Flow far ,
For where the Heart is happy is when the Life is at Par !

You are the Sunshine , you are the Star ,
You are the Light shining bright afar .
For where the Heart is happy is when Life is at Par !

You are the Past , you are the Present .
Do not live with any resent .
You are the Queen , you are the Czar ,
For where the Heart is happy is when Life is at Par !

You are the Season ,
you are the Reason ,
You are the one making
every Connection.
You are the Joy , you are the Scar .
For where the Heart is happy is when Life is at Par !

You are the None ,
You are the One ,
You ain't going to be Right or Wrong , just what you decide you are !

© Mrunalini.D.Nimbalkar

yes
I have found you
now
I must lose you

I call my name, I plead
in quiet desperation, I try to stay afloat,
I let my mind strike an arrow in a danger zone of imagination:
the waves as cover to my fear,
and then I squeeze my pain like a nettle in my palm
and breathe for just a fleeting moment.

I see it clearly: my first ride without side wheels,
the spring has yet to settle its’ warmer palms into April’s edges.
My parents’ cheerful encouragement is bright, and my bruised knees don’t hurt as bleeding
is not the only pain I’ve learnt to feel by now.

I see my heart be gently broken and I break someone else’s heart —
I hate myself for that,
I hate myself,
I’m back,
I’m back to drowning.
The rapid flow of sorrow is fitting between my ribs like a habit I hoped I buried before.

I call my name again.
My entire body is shivering in a steamed bathroom, I hold onto the cold of sink
and I’m sinking again,
the ringing in my ears gets quieter —
I feel it.
Feel the tickling dark to move from the back of my head towards my temples,
it puts its palm on my weakest shoulder —
the one I keep for all my loved ones to lean on.

I never let myself to weep,
although my face is hot and wet from streams of anguish I cannot keep inside.

I picture my younger self in the greatest pain on a hallway floor while nurse
hesitates and joins in lulling —
she calls my name, she pleads.

I’m picturing myself with my head and bloodstream full of meds be let outside to only snap again
and act as my worst enemy once more:
my wrists and arms are witnesses to that.

My wild violence towards myself
is what will feed the fear and self-destructive thoughts I act upon.
I’m bored and that’s my sadness’ strongest drug.