"assessments" poems
I know you are good in assumptions
Your assessments are the best
Even the things only One would know
Because you are a fine judge
Who you think you are
But your judgment now is not
What matters at all
Jun 1, 2015
Jun 1, 2015 at 6:02 PM UTC
beauty marks and
kisses from angels
dots on white
checked every year
they made my mom sick
they burned them
cut them
froze them
they cover her more than me
like sprinkles
little moments in time
spread over her body
my fingers would trail them
feel the way they changed her skin
I loved her dark spots
until I realized they did not love her
I've grown
my skin has stretched mine
pulled my dark spots apart from where they started
If I could show you just how much I've changed
I would show you with my dark spots
I would show you how they started here
and moved
and changed
and grew
I would tell you how one dark spot has tracked my growth
it never expected to be pulled down with the years
but my growth prevailed and there it lies
miles away from it's home
I would show you the one that I touch when I am nervous
but not a bad nervous
the nervous that excites
that entices
that knows there is more to find
an adventure abroad
your love to steal
I touched this dark spot when I first saw you
I still run my finger over it
every time we meet
I would show you the scar
where one was cut out
where my kiss from an angel
was suspected to be a kiss from cruel fate
where my Mother's sickness
shined through me
where I felt mortality for the first time
I lost my first tooth that summer day
hours before they took my first dark spot
it was as if my body knew it was time to grow up
now that I had thought of death
there was no point for baby teeth
their assessments were wrong
my dark spot was an angel's kiss
but the risk was too great
a lighter body and an aged mind moved forward
my kiss gone
my blessings gone as well
I would show you the ones that come every year
that lightly dust my nose
I would run your finger over the skin
to show you that they are as fleeting as the season
that they pop up as fast as they leave
just like you did
you left with those dark spots
I would show you the ones that make me who I am
make me who we are
the triangle on my left arm
the triangle that all the women in my family share
the women that are the strongest I know
that have their own dark spots
their own stories
such a vast valley between our lives
joined by our love
by our past
by our dark spots
all in the same shape
I would show you my fourth dark spot
I would show you the thing that I am most proud and humiliated of
the fact that I am not wholly one of them
the fact that I am my own
I would ask you to flip me over
to run your hand across my back
to clutch my ribs
to touch the dark spots I cannot see
to give you the dark spots that are for you
I would show you the dark spots that are for you when I walk away
when I lay next to you
under you
in front of you
if I could show you how much I've changed
I would show you my dark spots
the ones that belong to you
the ones that belong to the angels
the ones that belong to the cruel fate
the ones that are from my mother
I would show you the ones that bind me to the women in my family
but most of all
I would show you the ones that are just mine
that only I know
I want you to know them too
I want you to know my dark spots
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 12:21 AM UTC
Shape and structure coming together
Body composition like no other
A date in pushing heavy weights
But as a Bodybuilder how each muscle relate
Fitness and Bodybuilding all require all the nutrition that you take in
It’s the energy to help you begin and strength in continual at the end
Fitness and Bodybuilding is about body shape and construct
But careful concentration that you don’t run a mock
However, Bodybuilding being more intense with precise body buildup principles
It’s not a simple process
It’s focus with a mission
The battle with weights for condition
The whole point is strictly exercise
The new image from training in thinking wise
A Gym being the place to create the new you
The results in the mirror for you to look through
The Personal Trainer guiding you every step of the way
Proven assessments that will be ok
Fitness and Bodybuilding coming together as two separate sports
Intensity at one end and shape contouring at the other
“Exercise is to look a certain way, tomorrow your after will be another day”.
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 6:45 PM UTC
I dream of a society
Where the ideals of beauty
Are less focused on superficial concepts like one's waistline
Or how decrepit their smile lines made them appear
But rather one where the focal point of unanimous adoration is,
As corny as this may sound,
One's morals and where they land on the gradient of human compassion
In this utopia,
The elderly aren't seen as catalysts for repugnance and a wrinkling of noses
But rather as symbols of eruditeness and beauty
The type of beauty that influence or money can't obtain
And it may be conceivable that instead of wasting my days squandering over my physical appearance,
I can just fritter away the days
Strumming my ukulele along to the tune of my American dream
For I have yet to actually awaken from my adolescent slumber
Breifly enough to grasp my dream from the bubble floating above my resting head
And nestle it securely in my pocket
So it doesn't forgo me
In search of someone less complacent with bewilderment about their future
Who dreams of social and economic prosperity
Instead of someone who's apathetic at best about whatever career choice they've chosen for the week
Maybe that's just it
That maybe I don't want the conventional American dream of fame or fortune or recognition
Is it feasible that maybe my American dream isn't to rise from sqaulor into a soulless mansion
Whose corridors boast success
But lack warmth and presence?
I suppose that my American dream encompasses more than just America itself
It lives in the eyes of every human being on the face of the earth
It's nestled in the gaze of a starving child
And the stare of anyone who's ever felt a tongue's razor edge
And all I'd have to do is delve into their eye sockets and plant a seed
A seed of hope and compassion
Or whatever I deem fit
Perhaps I just want to shield myself
From the world's disapproving glances,
Those fleeting moments of eye contact that convey condescending judgement
Maybe I'd just like to make a difference to things sans the media’s snide opinion
But despite my juxtaposition to society's critical assessments,
I know that I can't run away from my fears or problems
So maybe I dream of a society
Where I can remain headstrong even in the face of opposition
Because I'm aware that not everyone's going to love each other
And spout sweet nothings about peace and understanding from their hind quarters
So maybe I'd like to help be a driving force
That wards off the world's shadows
So the sun can continue to shine on my American dream
Aug 14, 2012
Aug 14, 2012 at 11:14 PM UTC
At 7 years old, I told my mother,
"You're not my real mom.
You're my Earth mom,
And at night when I'm asleep,
I go back to my home planet."
As the years sped onwards,
I conceptualized myself as a three headed alien,
A Poet From Another Planet,
Acutely aware of my innate differences.
No explanation had I other than being extraterrestrial.
Those around me, too, seemed to sense I was "other."
Playground insults supported by adults who floated labels like
"Lazy," "Difficult," "Rude," "Deliberately Obtuse"
Over my head as if they were a crown,
Signifying I was queen of kingdom "Unlike Us."
No one looked deeper at the poor social skills ,
The rigidity, sensory difficulties, challenges with executive dysfunction.
It was easier to pretend I was in control,
Choosing the route of difficulty and belittlement.
It was only after I nearly succeeded in killing myself
That someone assembled the whole picture.
My story is not unique among women
Born into bodies and brains whose operating system is Autism.
We are the forgotten, the alienated, and plastered with assumptions,
Lost under the blind eye of those who spin tall tales of
"Only straight, white little boys can possibly be autistic!"
Generations of autistic women have known not a name for their difference,
Bogged down under self-loathing, eating disorders, and suicides,
Anything to cope with a world designed to break them
For the differences everyone noticed but no one could see.
Now that women are finally coming onto the scene,
A subtle shift in the awareness that the clinicians, teachers, doctors
Were missing a whole population of autistic people,
Answers are gate kept behind assessments that are thousands of dollars
And diagnosticians who've yet to see the error of their ways.
Peace of mind seems to be a right only of white autistic men
Who are lucky enough to have the "profile" of autism modeled after them.
It took 19 years, two suicide attempts, including 10 days in a coma
For someone to finally "see me,"
And I'm one of the lucky ones.
Answers were finally mine,
But understanding one's own brain should be a human right.
I think we can all agree:
The price of a diagnosis should not be your life.
Mar 17, 2021
Mar 17, 2021 at 2:39 PM UTC
Logical doesn’t have taste. It has circumstance. Only to be tasteful, is to be surrounded by a taste of what gradually makes a self importance greater to yourself. Proudly underestimating yourself at first. Giving closure to the surrounding areas. Taste has no boundaries here. A made-up friction. A made-up functionality. A dripping faucet without clarity. Dripping one social taste at any given time. Clarity giving rise to the surrounding areas with logical ingredients. Logical ingredients slapping taste buds without concern for logical praise. Logical praise that doubts it’s understanding of taste buds giving praise to ingredients without concern for how praise will affect it’s priorities. Priorities finishing the diversity of something logical with a taste. The taste buds feeling the diversities finalizing ingredients in their rightful places. Like shiny white plates on display for the crowd of praises effecting one’s own priorities. Teeth whitening the taste buds for greater effect. Praises finally giving the logical praise the taste it deserves. More surrounding areas include a broader crowd. A newer logical taste starts to emerge in the practice of ingredients giving logical praise to the logical priorities that govern it so. Praise from newer surroundings influencing more ingredients in the form of logical taste. More taste buds start feeling the diversities in the praise which salivates the practice of logical assessments. A reverse act giving rise to a simplified logical taste without boundaries.
Oct 27, 2019
Oct 27, 2019 at 9:55 PM UTC
A morning philosophical conversation
approached the hard euthanasia question..
A saddened room as several with tears
recounted their special tragedies..
their own close life endings..
Other reflections revolved around
considerations of laws and rights..
troubled preferences for dark
decisions made now...
An afternoon wildfire with exploding fury
a sudden jump of canyon walls
raged into a city surprised..
Mass evacuations.. decisions right now..
demands of how to choose life..
Still many transfixed by the terrible beauty..
orange..billowing.. burning.. chaos...
Assessments reach both forward and back..
questions of rehearsals for future nows..
inadequacies of many decisions past..
Somehow in our heat today.. a continuing
blaze not yet contained..
new awareness..an urgent plea..
to experience life's beauty and
constricting pain.. already enclosed
in an expectant now...
Jun 28, 2012
Jun 28, 2012 at 1:56 PM UTC
An ant on the edge of a glass clings with microscopic acrobatics,
A thematic blood-curdling scream breaks my concentration. A dream’s
Manifestation, a masturbatory second-glance, a fiftieth
Chance exhaled out a window, instead of words. I heard
Every one of yours, believe me.
Let me retrieve my dignity, your amnesia only temporary
And your memory selective, my detective skills more useful
For playing CSI in the mornings. The bruises are telling,
The losers uncertain, the wine stains on the curtain
Permanent, the bloodstains invisible, the headache miserable,
The reasons obvious. Be more devious, and less serious.
The lipstick marks I leave on your blanket make it
Impossible to forsake it, but better to forget it, forget the words --
“That jacket would look better on you with some bullet holes.”
Holy **** let me explain:
I don’t want you feeling pain, don’t want you driving home drunk,
I didn’t want you to get into this funk, can’t keep
Protecting you from the truth, I hoped my honesty
Might help you see a little, even help you sleep.
Keep your assessments quiet till noon, adjust your feelers,
Sniff the air, there, there, little ant, it’ll all be over soon.
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 3:47 PM UTC
Be the recluse,
Be the hermit,
And make your assessments of others
Based on short and fleeting interaction,
Drenched in the sweat of "purpose" & "agenda,"
And be met with statements
Which really convey nothing and rarely
Encapsulate honest thought in brevity
But are said only to end the conversation.
Close knit,
The threads choke,
Living your turtleneck life.
No collar to be turned up,
The cotton already hugs your throat;
Nothing to end abrupt,
That which never saw its start.
Those who talk
Simply to hear themselves,
Do they have anything to say?
Those with the blinders on,
They never see the entrance ramp
Neither the turn-offs
Till it's too late.
Jul 9, 2024
Jul 9, 2024 at 10:11 AM UTC
In the grand tapestry of teaching, oh what an irony,
Heavy workloads and limited time, a teacher's reality.
The demands of planning and administrative tasks,
Leave little room for professional growth, an ironic mask.
Standardized assessments hold their prominent sway,
Personalized instruction often pushed astray.
In the pursuit of measurable student success,
Oh what an irony, tailored learning becomes less.
Creativity yearns to dance with the curriculum's frame,
But guidelines and standards can stifle its flame.
Balancing innovation and prescribed requirements,
Oh what an irony, creativity often expires.
Assessment-focused teaching takes center stage,
Holistic development may find itself in a cage.
The pressure to achieve desired outcomes so keen,
Oh what an irony, limiting the broader learning scene.
Teachers, pillars of education, yet often unrecognized,
Their impact immense, but acknowledgment minimized.
In the realm of recognition and fair compensation,
Oh what an irony, undervaluing their dedication.
Autonomy, a cherished gift for teachers to possess,
But administrative constraints can hinder their success.
Top-down decisions and rigid schedules in place,
Oh what an irony, limiting their teaching grace.
Work-life balance, a delicate tightrope to tread,
Nurturing students' well-being while their own is spread.
In the pursuit of equilibrium, an ironic juggle,
Teaching others to thrive, their own balance a struggle.
Outcomes become paramount, their value held high,
Yet the process of learning can sometimes pass by.
Prioritizing scores over growth and lifelong skills,
Oh what an irony, neglecting the learning thrills.
In the world of teaching, ironies abound,
Navigating the contradictions, often profound.
But amidst these challenges, educators endure,
Oh what an irony, their passion remains pure.
May 15, 2023
May 15, 2023 at 2:48 AM UTC
I am not afraid of death.
I am afraid
of leaving nothing behind:
no legacy, no memory, no lasting impression.
I am afraid
I will not have a mark, a footprint,
a story worth telling generation after generation.
I am afraid
everything I ever do
will have absolutely no meaning
after my conscience is inevitably whipped from existence.
I am afraid
all of the tests and assessments will count for no grade:
none of the points will have ever mattered,
whole nights awake and exhausted stress for nothing.
I am afraid
each word I wrote and every line I drew will be erased,
the rubber shavings swept to the floor by a careless hand
vacuumed away in spring cleaning,
and emptied into a trash bin months, even years later.
I am afraid
the lyrics that sprang spontaneously from my lips
soaked and soapy from shampoo in the shower
will only survive dripping through dank, rusted pipes
echoing with hollow drops in an empty bi-centennial home
for no one.
I am afraid
what I saw, what I understood, what I thought, and what I spoke
will have no impact on the interpretation of the universe
through the eyes of others;
there is no continued learning through humanity,
only amnesia
forgetting and loosing
until our entire species dies of sheer stupidity.
I am afraid
my essence will be forgotten.
But then again,
I am also afraid if I am not.
I die and then what?
Mourning?
Wailing and depression?
Screaming and fury and reverberating shrieks?
Pure, blessed joy at relief from my existence on this Earth?
I cannot decide which I fear more:
my last breath passing as not an eyelash bats with nerve for care
or my memorial lasting eternally.
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 11:36 PM UTC
POSTICTAL PORTHOLE-(TIME BLOWN BACKWARDS)
Frozen breath holding back weight, against the chest seems great stacked like stones
Starting softly to see from the third door down the row,reclusive, damage is waiting to show
Others in red alert our mind coming on slow, their fear no reflection on our unknowns
Peace while in waiting,thoughts flow slow into a reflecting pool,echos beginning to grow
Time blown backwards when clocks stopped ticking , simple assessments our only goals
Mental evaporation senses left wide open,trying to find the song but only get static from the radio
Held back by grogginess looking out from fogginess ,bits of life as viewed through those holes
Oh MY I made it,escaped , BUT when will blackness call again,laying low not quite thinking of that other plateau
Bolted ,jolted rousing frequently followed by drowsing,hearing as a low hum ,sounds soon forming new tones
Nonexistentance now part of the ritual ,for the witness memories are visual,slowly waiting to say hello
Perspective has changed, await for thoughts to be rearranged ,senses in collusion with massive confusion,new beginning like waiting for future episodes . R.C.
Jan 17, 2018
Jan 17, 2018 at 12:05 PM UTC
Insulting acts are evaluated by deadly opinions,
Portraying a picture that hurts dignified views.
Even if the judgement is completely justified,
We should never apply disapproving conclusions.
Forming negligent assessments without all facts,
Existing claims of immorality signifies sentiments.
Let wickedness be judged by a higher power,
Only a righteous God can interpret wisely.
Once we resist the supposition from criticism,
Reasoning of objectivity will inspire civility.
Sep 1, 2016
Sep 1, 2016 at 12:30 PM UTC
File my heart under fragile
For it hasn’t been handled with care for so long
That I forget it wasn’t made to withstand such torture
The brochure that came in the box said “no warrantee available”
And that didn’t seem a problem since it wasn’t too tangible
But that in no my made its protection manageable
See it has this defect where it attaches to people it deems loveable
But its assessments are usually miserable
The results of such endeavors seem ironically laughable
And in the end it sits in a stagnant pool of blood and tears
I stir it like a fool would, and drain it when its too full
But it doesn’t stop from making the same mistakes
This stupid piece of flesh I hate twists when I seem right as rain
Theirs no warrantee, no cash back, no trade
So what happens when it finally breaks?
Well its obvious and it gives me shakes
But I rake in all the love I can
Hoping to be a better man
Despite this heart that hurts too much
Trusts too much
That seems to be best at collecting dust
In hopes that I can keep it going as long as possible
Even through making attachments that aren’t too logical
For it could **** me to bear it
But I really wish to share it
So if I perish in the process, I guess its my fault
For putting it in harms way, when I really know better
Nov 24, 2012
Nov 24, 2012 at 12:13 AM UTC
Eleven years since I enrolled.
Eleven years I've been a part of this system.
And with open arms I would finally like to thank you
For what the school has offered me.
So thank you
For preparing me for the world.
Needing to prove in six lines or more why line A is parallel to line B
Will surely serve me nicely when I'm on my own and need to write triangular comparisons.
And although I don't know a thing about taxes,
I know to fear not,
Because mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell,
And that is the only thing that will be on the test.
And I trust your all-knowing judgment because you have never failed me before.
So you must be right when you say my little brother doesn't need to write in script
Because , as you put it, computers are the future.
There is no need to learn to write.
And I can't forget the ever-so-loving atmosphere distributed to me all those years.
I had learned to have a sense of humor at the young age of nine,
Because it was a joke to you when the other children told me to end it with a slash.
And all the assessments have served us greatly.
The loss of a history class to learn how to use a keyboard for testing
Could not have been time better spent.
Real life skills do not need to be taught,
Not when useless test scores are prioritized and focused on
Rather than a decent life lesson,
And all because they equal money in corrupt superintendents’ wallets.
That is what I have learned after all these years.
A sincere thank you is in order for the education supplied.
I have surely been taught well.
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 9:04 AM UTC
A staff of a million skeletons will attend to you today.
Should you become unwell.
The walking dead will sort you out upon these festive days.
Hark,
Listen hard.
You can hear their bony feet clacking on the ward floors.
No ears to hold their scopes, nor neck to dangle tubes upon.
Missing eyes in hollow socket space.
Surgery out of the question.
Without eyes much too dangerous to mention.
No visual assessments.
Palpate your belly.
Icy fingers scratch.
Always have cold hands.
Write their ward reports in blood.
That which once was yours.
They keep it in a cookie jar.
Fed with anti-coagulants.
Last time you were admitted.
Stashed away for the ill to use exclusively on Christmas day.
The nurses are worn out.
Fingers worn down to the bone.
Listen once again as all those patients moan.
A cold bed bath.
The nurses hands are sorely chilled.
Had no time to eat today.
Only one or two around.
That's all the staff they found.
The angels became bones.
No time for their breaks.
While festive moments are magic.
Only get ill if you must.
Won't be very long before the staff turn into dust!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Dec 26, 2013
Dec 26, 2013 at 12:37 PM UTC
I saw her from a distance
Her evident difference
alarmed me for a moment
My eyes hidden behind glasses
made split second assessments
My confusion in this place of fitting in
was considerable, unknown to me
I saw in her hand the cigarette burning
Her fat perfectly rounded belly held
and wrapped in red flowering
frilly and flowing dress
It was hiked up at the front
showing pudgy white blotchy skin
the time for babies was long behind her
We moved closer toward each other
Her difference and indifference grew
I noticed her saunter with unstable gait
Her long dried out died blond hair
Her own attempt at glamour stood out
The mismatched colours, the loose layers
and the string of large yellow beads
wrapped around her goitre throat
Her eyes gazing downwards
We were going to pass soon
I knew she was different
It was surprising and unexpected in this place so the same
I was unprepared in those seconds left to pass
Thoughts and feeling arose and changed
Those thoughts and feelings are mine to question
"Good morning"
And on the wind the smell of old cheap perfume
and cigarette smoke, delicious
Reminding me of who I was before
Of a far away time brought to mind
by that perfect mix of smoky chemicals
a place with happy memories
a place I longed to return to
my youth
I was left with a realisation
Our desire can lead us down a one way path
This one dimension forbidding alternatives
Designating an end point
A reminder not to forget who you were, is who you are now
Made from pasts both good and bad
To celebrate our differences
Nov 20, 2017
Nov 20, 2017 at 6:22 PM UTC
I'm glad it was her not you tonight.
I am sure the speaking of literature and film
would have gone differently if it had been
you in my space.
Looking at my things and analyzing my habits
making assessments of my mannerisms.
If it had been you, I'm sure
I may have done something incautious and perhaps
callous,
the kind of thing you come from dreams saying
perhaps the invitation should
have been lost on
maybes and could have beens.
I suppose it's unkind to think,
If one or the other just did not exist
it would make this plight much different
not better
just different.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 12:40 AM UTC
one mind lost
two assessments due
three activities
four chores, a bore
five things to write
six calls a-missed
seven brain cells left
eight (myself I hate)
nine botched deadlines
ten angry men
and eleven disappointed people (including me)
May 20, 2019
May 20, 2019 at 5:20 PM UTC
It is not drishti;
It is my ignorant staring
that draws me into you
Neither eyes, head
nor heart softens
straining to meet your gaze
Yearning, longing
unspoken earnest
an ensnared frenzy
The alien depths of
complicated blues
dismember me
The tales and odes
craft and song;
mimic sweet melodies
Basking in warmth
tracing footsteps;
following blindly
But this is fleeting faith
euphoric delusions
****** girlish fantasies
you leave me
again;
naked, empty
Repeated assessments in
blood-red marks;
*** laude in foolery
Yet I rise once more
reassemble the remnants
move forward
For that is all I know,
and I fear;
all I will ever know
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 2:32 PM UTC
Writing is a gesture that ties my pleasure
As people walk in and out after a search
For the luminescent touch of knowledge
And the manipulation they wear dares
To become the only monster they treasure
Myriads of erudition and contemplations
Of the human mind, of the human kind
Is it not the wisdom bestowed by academia?
The biased subjective assessments
The reduced objective indoctrination
The social constructions of the reality itself
Is it not the wisdom bestowed by academia?
Such a relative weighted in apollonian seams
That makes doctors to treat ailments
That makes a judge to rule a deluded justice
That makes a teacher drill a curriculum
Is it not the wisdom bestowed by academia?
Which make us question creation
Which reduces the metaphysics to nothing
Which validates the seen and not unseen
They offered us schools, those glass rules
That brings scholars to warm the benches
Such cruel rues, after years of toil
And there is neither guarantee for jobs
Such a robbery, a dare of mere mockery
So watch those children, as they wear bags
And trek to school everyday, another dystopia
So watch those children, paraded and uniformed
And as their eyes are matted with a bright future
The reality of the future they hold is contrary
For loans will bear the apex of their ribcage
For jobs will become a rare commodity
Artificial robots and self-driven cars
Automated rackets and self-serving checkouts
The obsolete conquest of human labor
Shall time be the only resource we bear?
It’s eventual but ever so inevitable
Mar 28, 2018
Mar 28, 2018 at 1:24 PM UTC
Toluene
I've buried origins in foreign soil,
I've buried me in all my turmoil,
but you are the shovel
digging deeper into me,
and I don't mind.
I don't mind feeling the love,
but I mind the sick -
the sick feels like all
the reasons to die.
When absence
becomes a metronome,
I know we've been too far apart,
even hearts cannot force
a beat to leap when
souls grow cold and
hands become ashtrays
in the dark.
And though this world may decay,
my love for you will never fade;
darling you make me feel
as if I'm coming home,
darling, you're dripping
all the colours of the rainbow
all over my heart's monochrome.
**A/N: Utter nonsense...but anyways here's a new poem. Have been very busy with school - a week full of assessments one after the other.
Please comment your thoughts on this poem (: Thankyou for reading! ♡♡**
Feb 24, 2017
Feb 24, 2017 at 8:41 AM UTC
They've been there.
They've been there with me.
Ever since my birth.
Ever since my first cry.
Ever since my first giggle.
Ever since my first pain.
They've been by me,
Ever since I started crawling.
Ever since I stood on my feet,
And started walking.
They've been there for me,
For untold number of days,
For a myriad nights,
With absolutely no sleep,
To let me sleep, peacefully.
Without a tension, without any problem.
They've been there.
And they will, I know.
They've tried to make me content.
They've tried to satisfy my needs and wants.
They've tried to feed me the healthiest of foods,
While remaining hungry, themselves,
While starving their own stomachs,
As if they did never feel hungry,
As if it was all fine.
They've taken me to various trips,
Bought me innumerable toys.
Admitted me to one of the best schools.
Spent hours to make me prepared, for various assessments.
Hired the best private teachers,
Paid them as much they demanded,
Without worrying about how the next fifteen days of the month are going to pass.
Without buying anything for themselves,
Without caring for their own health,
They've raised me.
They've raised me, like a prince is raised.
They've just kept aside their wishes.
They've wasted the most precious, most lively, most joyful period of their life, just for me,
So that I could be happy,
So that I had no complaints,
But am I worth their time?
Am I worth this much care?
Will I be able to give them back, at least something, in order to raise the corners of their lips?
Will I be able to do something that will wipe off those invisible tears on their pale faces?
Never. Never will I be able to make them happy.
I have seen them struggling,
Struggling, to give me what they never had,
I have seen them crying, under those synthetic smiles.
I have heard them sobbing, very carefully letting the tears roll down,
So that, I would not wake up,
And when I asked them, what happened, how flamboyantly they shrouded me with innocent lies.
A few more years, and they'll be gone.
And leave me behind.
They'll leave me staring at their pictures and crying and wanting them back to life, to stay there by my side, always.
How shameful it is, for me,
That I never ever had a reason to hug you both.
Maa, baba,
I love you both.
Maybe this isn't enough.
But I will love you both, always.
Always.
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 2:40 AM UTC