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How do I go about shedding the shells
that earned me a pat on the head and a "good girl"?

I was the parent's dream,
a blue-ribbon giftee
of civility,
the picture of obedience,
​and oh so mature!
The 'quiet child' cachet was my only allure.

This caged bird didn't sing
of sentiments and other sinful things,
but spent decades nesting feelings.

When all alternatives felt illicit,
I reserved my torments for exclusive exhibitions,
where I held the only ticket.
Those showcased, glass displays are my poems now,
I've stuffed them with secrets I can't talk about,
but can write down.

Do the people who raised me deserve an applause?
I've got songs dancing in my head and they're the cause
of my closet of flaws.
Would I even have it in me if I was a happy child,
bold and wild?
They say art is for those who've lived in the rain;
Well, I've had my cup of it
and I guess, this is my exchange.


Copyright © 2021 by S. Y. Kalindara. All rights reserved.
I think part 1 and 2 say it all, I've got nothing left to explain.
I confessed that I cried
while reading bright dead things,
and my mother smiled
because I'm the delicate kind,
and said that I loved poetry the way my grandfather did.

Shuttered eyes, slipping into the realisation
that it's funny how spirit skips a generation,
and all at once I'm bleeding blue,
recalling the pictures of you,
coated in tears that wet my lashes
like grass in morning dew.

I dress myself in pearls,
from what I've heard,
they were his favourite,
and walk to the Siren's sea,
in honour of a memory
that's not taken from me.

Because I still see him in my cousin's face and every gentle soul I meet.
I greet him with our mirrored mannerisms and the phrases I repeat.

I treat him with every plateful of pomegranates and sugarcanes.
I feel him every time this desert rains.

I hear him in his many namesakes,
hear his absence ringing in my mother's heartaches.

I'm near him when I pass his Phoenix palm in our garden,
towering tall, touching his ghost in the seventh heaven.

And when it's my time to drop the curtain,
and my poem fades into the mist,
I'll step into the afterlight,
and tell him all about it.


Copyright © 2021 by S. Y. Kalindara. All rights reserved.
To my grandfather, I wish I had known you for more than five years. I hope you're at peace.
I still can't say your name aloud,
I've got my tongue trapped in a cirrus cloud.
I still push on and play pretend,
to the planet's eye, you never happened.
But it's times like this,
where my mind swims,
and the ripples of mementos flow
then come casually crashing at my back door.
And though I keep it sealed,
you seep in,
flooding floors,
and all at once,
I'm sinking.


Copyright © 2021 by S. Y. Kalindara. All rights reserved.
Thinking about the girl who did more than break my heart at 14.
s y kalindara May 17
I sound the way I feel
silent, silenced.
I speak in soft sentences that end
in demure whispers
and masking mumbles,
with a voice that's paralleled to averting eyes, glancing at passing feet.

I bear a larynx that insufflates insecurities
and a mouth that hosts friction;
sealed lips, grinding teeth and a bitten tongue.
They're my signatures and I own each one.


Copyright © 2021 by S. Y. Kalindara. All rights reserved.
This is a two-parter. I'll be publishing the next bit soon. It went a bit off topic so I felt like it was better suited as a separate yet related poem.
s y kalindara Mar 16
I miss you in tides,
high as the summer afternoon sun in the skies
we danced beneath.

I miss you in hues
of grey, green and blue;
akin to carbon copies of your eyes.

I miss you like cities miss the stars,
I'd switch this country's lights off for just a glimmer in the dark.

I miss you with my throat exposed,
heart pacing back and forth down your road,
itching for your call.

I miss you in reveries,
and silent dreams,
in distractions, and the mindful winds I breathe.

I miss you through all these whirlwind feelings.
I miss you when I'm numb to them all.
I'll miss you tomorrow like I did today.
I'll miss you in waterfalls.


Copyright © 2021 by S. Y. Kalindara. All rights reserved.
Missing J.
A fresh stage is set and I'm stamping this day
as the day I finally cleansed the clouds
and crossed your name.

You've taken a fall from your pedestal
and I see you now,
with your domino on the ground,
my fair-weather friend (that's a kind way to put it),
my boiling point can't cook up a better fit.
I've played your ruthless game for the longest stretch,
I let a ******* decade slip through my fingers;
and I've still lingered,
for the sake of something I can't recall anymore.
Your betrayals are the mindless hand to an hourglass
and I'm counting the sand you spilled.
No sea of apologies can wash away this wreck.
I'm done with pointing fingers and holding daggers to your neck.
I'll lay my shield and armour down, and walk you out.

A fresh stage is set and I'm stamping this day
as the day I let your hand and my grudges go
and asked your ghost to stay.


Copyright © 2021 by S. Y. Kalindara. All rights reserved.
Finally letting go of a friendship gone sour.
s y kalindara Oct 2020
I laid my pen and line to rest for twenty seasons
as the frost settling in my mind and fingers, warmed up to dream
only to waken again by the grace of a lover,
a muse unlike any other,
a kaleidoscope of raining colours.

With the twinkling of your eyes,
the words fell out of my head,
parading on papers for the world to see
just as my veins welcomed the warmth of creativity.

You are the vision behind every verse I'm founding,
thirteen in counting,
a finer motive than fresh air and tranquil sleep
every fibre is clawing at me to keep you close
to never fade away like a withering rose.

Will my senses still serve me without your touch?
Will I ever write again if I let myself forget
the melody of your voice and your silhouette?
I'm not ready to find out just yet.

We have taken a vow, my pen and I
to keep you alive, for an age or two
or however long it might take to find
our glory in someone new.


Copyright © 2020 by S. Y. Kalindara. All rights reserved.
Thinking about how I stopped writing for 5 years until I met J and he inspired me in ways I didn't think possible. I'm still writing because of him.
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