My story,
Do I have one?
Of course I do, everyone does.
Some are harsher and crueler
Some are nice and happer
Many are a mix of cruel and happy
And as for me, I have one too
It's sad and happy, a bit of both.
My story.
It starts in the beginning
And ends at the end
It's quirky and troubled
Sunny and long.
But it's also shorter than many
I've lived much in my
Fifteen(almost sixteen) years of life
Not as much as others
But my tapestry is tightly woven
My story
Is a story of
Pain and laughter
Love and indifference
And it is still being written.

Hurricane fighter
Life and death celebrator, Spicy food eater
Street performer and Harborer of ships
Weather-beaten, resilient, colorful
The City that Care Forgot

They tell me you are beaten, *****, and old, and I acknowledge this, having seen your streets and limping buildings, water-marked and sagging
They tell me you are cruel and dark, and I agree, I've seen the voodoo shops, and the papers speaking of crimes
They tell me you are raucous and crowded, and I respond, "Yes, I know. I have walked through her streets and through the ear shattering sound"

And having said these things, I look again to those who ridicule my home, my city and tell them:
I dare you to bring me news of another place that's been beat down, and yet time after time rises again, singing even in death and anguish, wearing the dingy but bright colors of life

Laughing in the face of defeat, walking proud, and even as its guts tear each other apart, she sets her jaw and keeps moving forward
Fierce as a gator grappling with a hunter, clever and bright as a bird
Battered,
Falling,
Flying,
Soaring,
Hurting, healing, grinning
Beneath the ******, dirt smeared face, she smiles with a brilliant grin
Beneath the harsh reality of injuries and setbacks, fire dances in her heart and soul
Dancing even as a wizened soldier knowledgeable in pain but carefree would
Twisting and spinning over and around obstacles, taking the occasional hit, laughing in the ***** air, lifeblood of the city coursing through her veins
Dancing!
Laughing the weather-beaten, resilient, colorful laugh of Youth. Proud to be a Hurricane fighter
Life and death celebrator, Spicy food eater Street performer, Harborer of ships,
The City that Care Forgot

O Captain! My Captain
An agent of Time
Set out on a mission,
That went all but fine.
Two years of memories
All down the drain

Two new friends left him
Near as soon as they came
After a battle between Dalek and man
This in a sense,
Was his last stand.
He came, he conquered
He fell, and rose

Abandoned by friends
To fend for his own

Back in time he went,
And stuck once again,
Our Captain seemed doomed
To live on his own

The immortal was cocky,
Lived life to its best
Though after a few hundred years,
He'd soon beg for rest.

O Captain! My Captain!
What's brought you dread?
Is it the fact that you went
From human to a head?

He was merely a face.
The Face of Boe, he was called.
His long lived life,
Lived with flaw.

Alas, it seems,
All things come to an end.
And with the Time Lord and companion,
Our Captain was dead.

O Captain, my Captain!
Though plans were never followed through,
We all met you with one line:
"Captain Jack Harkness, and who are you?"

yesterday’s tormentor
is todays peace-keeper
strange are the ways of this world
stranger still are my own perceptions
now here, now there
they prance about

- Vijayalakshmi Harish
   08.01.2013
   Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish

I met a girl with fire on her head and in her heart.
Her arms were lined with scars, curved perfectly with the Reaper's Scythe.
She was beautiful, but she didn't know it.

And isn't that the story?
A sad, beautiful little thing saved by a shining knight,
because no one cares unless you're beautiful or dying.
I am neither. So where do I belong?
A young woman- no longer a girl- never graced by lips in adoration or sympathy.
Never known love,
what is love, really?

Can't anyone tell me? Because I'm sitting inside this bricked up wall,
invisible to certainty and all the passerby.
They pass on by, pass me by, can't they see me cry?
This wall is too **** high.  
Just like the last guy.

And I was dead before I was born.
What a cold heart, I'm never warm.
I found the world, but it was broken.
I found love but it was wasted,
Like the last man I tasted.

I crave
            simplicity.

Procrastinating

At least it's with writing

Over a period of two days,
I had two inquiries of my own relational status
I also forgot milk, chicken, and various meat products
shoved together, shaped like tubes.

I switched my ring to my right hand
After that

Maybe people will get the picture
I'm not committed
There's no "other" to this significant

That sounds prideful
I don't mean it as such
I just know that I mean something
I'm here for something
That's more than I'd normally say on the subject
Downplay

I switched my ring to my right hand
Right before I got back all my various foods
I sit now, in a dimly lit living room
Illuminated with nothing but a distant light
And this computer screen

This poem has schizophrenic meanings
I hope I'm not committed.

Hello chimneypots and aerials,
the birds sitting on the rooftops,
window ledge, hello to you too
and to the flower *** that sits atop you-
hello.

You don’t have to wait
in line behind the boys in the band,
just to kiss that one girl’s hand.
Birds, you know nothing of the
subtleties of the relationship. Our
legs can’t fly in like yours, swoop
a female off her feet to
reside in your nest for one night.
How we have to learn the ways
of the woman, find out their likes and dislikes,
what flowers they enjoy and not hate.
Aerials, you’re strong willed and
stay tall in all weathers. All that channels
through you are the fake love affairs
that show up on pixelated squares.
Chimneypots, how I want to be you-
to smoke all day and still last a lifetime.
I’d be around for a century or two
and see suns, skies and moons
both come and go-
get destroyed by man
and his Average Joe.