am i really
who i think i am ?
am i really
who i've been told i am?
am i really
who i've been made to be?
am i bound to who
they perceive me as?
or can i be expressed
in a different form ?
i want to be alive, but i feel
trapped in who i am
it doesn't sit right with me
but who i think i am
doesn't sit right with them
i am human .
i am she .
i am they .
i am who i am .
but i am not bound to
how i am traditionally
perceived .

I think nobody understands the pain,
of living with constant fear.
I am tired of seeing women oppressed,
being hit, only bruises to show.
It is not okay to seal her lips then question,
why she took time to come out.
I will lose it if someone says that home
is where I'll be safe, oh I am not.
She is not, She is not, Oh she is not,
she is not, she is not, Oh I am not.

things she doesn’t ask...

are they things,
she doesn’t know to ask,
or
are they things
to which,
she does not want to know
the answers.

my not knowing the answer to this puzzle,
drives me to distraction, her Mona Lisa smile,
accompanied by her noncommittal “whatever,”
hiding the answer, nearly leads me over a blurting edge,
but for my inevitable retreat, for the true question,
has a  truer answer, that comes as well, 
in question form.  

Why do I,


or do I,

want to know?

वो बहती हवा है
वो बहती रही हमेशासे
मै ठहरा राहु सिधासा

वो बहती हवा है
वो कहती मुझिसे
ना देखू खुदको धीमासा

वो बहती हवा है
वो कहती मुझसे
तू साथ रहना हमेशा

ये रात अभी तो हैना
तुझी को सबकुछ कहना
तू धीमे धीमे बेहना

She dreams of the ideal man,
   but the suitor idolizes death in his soulful slumber.
She takes care of herself,
   though she cannot bestow her beauty to impressionists.
She falls in love,
   yet her delusional passions seethe her in disarray.
She finds new friends,
   but a ******* of overzealous poison tarnishes the relationship.
She cooks for more than one;
   ghosts accompany the reserved empty chairs.
She re-models her home,
   driven to impress; however, she is the only one impressed.
She longs for attention,
   craving for a taste of wanting to be loved.
She is she,
   and she is her own canvas.

The low low hanging lights
I held sky shots
I saw her walk,
My sight froze.
Her dark black hair
Her deep deep eyes,
The dress she wore
Oh! People it was a blur
My heart was stolen,
Stolen by her.