Most of the people hate isolation
only a few taking it as blessing
and such is the one I'm talking about.

What if the familiar have shunned me,
he would say, the world is now mine,
to the strangers I bare my heart,
as they do to me, a complete stranger,
in the once and possibly the only meet
between people otherwise divided
exchanging thoughts and contacts
sure no call would ever follow
but happy in the chance encounter.

He thus meets a melange of people,
the man whose wife fled with her lover,
the woman whose husband deserted her
but she still wears red in his name,
the son abandoned in childhood
the old woman disowned by son.

He takes all their sadness into him
and feels his own greatly diminished
thankful that fate hasn't been as harsh
or how he would have coped with
the misfortunes that befelled those strangers.

He bows his head, for in the isolation,
he knew how it hurts to be deprived of
what was obviously legitimate.

You know... sometimes I just want to be understood. But most of the time I'm ignored and misunderstood. I just want people to read me like an open book, maybe its because I'm prideful, but I end up keeping it all to myself. I'm so doubtful of the people around me, I call you friend but I question if its OK to open up to you.. friend. Too many shattered friendships, broken trust and broken hearts. A life where relationships are turmoil, when things are falling apart, I know other things are falling into place. Sometimes you just need space to figure things out you know? But stay too long and it can be self destructive, emotionally and physically. People say I shouldn't worry about the past, but that's where I learnt the most valuable lessons and sadly, a lot of people take that for granted. Blood stained history built what has become our destiny now. Good or bad, I'm just glad to look back and appreciate what I know now. If someone opens up to you, just know that you have earned their respect. Appreciate every aspect of it, because once you lose it, it could be gone forever.

High rise buildings don’t shed leaves.
And the trees are too far below to be seen.
‘Fall’ carries a different context in concrete
With gravity at play, its threatens to be mean....

There are pockets where nature is trimmed to size
And planted to add value to unreal estate
I should miss the mess, the sights and the eyes
And instead I watch my senses acclimate.

A pumpkin cinnamon latte, in Starbucks terms
Offers cultured aspirants a slice of respite
I am not ungrateful, but I can still reminisce
Not because of my earnestness but despite....

Memory of colours, orchestrates fall
A cacophony of wistfulness without a plot
I can’t even pretend it is autumn in my mind,
When the artifice around me is still so hot.

©️Arshia
6.10.18
#afutureisticpoem
#ifclimatechangecontinues

She chases autumn leaves
As though they’re
Wild scurrying mice,
Of brown and red,
And yellow ochre.
There’s a flurry of leaves
As she pounces onto her
Imaginary foe,
Which barely escapes.
She carefully peers beneath
Her soft playful paws.
In a whisp of crisp air,
It vanishes.

My heart feels like
it's about to shut down
from all the truths
that only I know

People view me
as kind
selfless
heartfelt
with empathy

Yet once they witness
my darker side
this inner demon
that is always
a few steps behind me

Once they see
the ashes and smeared blood
tainted within my mind and heart

I am once again alone
alone to pick up the pieces 
of a love that never was

Why Men Cry in the Bathroom

For so many reasons.
I will tell you the why.
I think you know,
Or perhaps, you think you know.

Men are always O.K.,
Even when not.

We expect the worse,
Accept the worse,
Nonetheless,
We are forever unprepared.

Wearily, we cry,
In the bathroom, in private,
Lest sighs slip by,
We be unmasked,
Early warring, strife signs warning.

Copious, tho we weep
Before the mirror confessor,
It is relief untethered,
Unbinding of the feet,
An uncounting
Of beaded rosaries,
Of freshly fallen hail stones,
Of night times terrors
By dawn's early edition's light,
and welcomed.

But look for the mute tear,
The eye-cornered drop,
*** tat, that never drops,
But never ceases formation and
Reforming, over and over again,
In a state of perpetuity of reconstitution,

The tippy tear of an iceberg revealing,
And I see you peeping, wondering,
What is beneath

Look for:
the torn worm-eaten edges of spirit,
thrift shop bought, extra worn,
grieving lines neath the eyes,
where the salt has evaporated,
discolored the skin.
worry lines,
under and above,
browed mapped, furrowed boundaries.
the laugh line saga,
where better days are stored,
recalled, as well as recanted,
publicly, privately.

Why just men?

I don't know,
Perhaps,
it is all I know.


Jan 6, 2013