"termed" poems
Before you criticize me too soon, I think you should spare some seconds and answer a simple question to yourself...
If Shahjahan loved Mumtaz Mahal so much, why he had a harem of wives to use at his own pleasure?
While I agree that the Taj Mahal is arguably the most extraordinarily beautiful monument in the world, I don't agree upon the fact that it was built as a tomb of love. It is just a symbol of madness if you asked me. An emperor's insecure feeling to get his name registered in the history books. While it may be one of the most beautiful architectural monument, it was built by over 20,000 architects, craftsmen, masons and engineers who took over 16 years to build the magnificent building.
He got this apparently high & prestigious monument of love built but everything that the Emperor did was not pleasant at all.
° The lavishly living Mughal Emperor spent all his - his subjects' money into building this monument of love instead of keeping his subjects well-fed.
° Mumtaz Mahal might have been the luckiest woman to have died and got such a marvelous building built as her mausoleum but she died giving birth to her & Shahjahan's 17th offspring and then Shahjahan who had uncountable other wives was inspired by her demise apparently to undertake what is termed as the biggest project in history build the costliest monument proclaiming his rule.
° The arrogant - falsely proud lover - Mughal emperor didn't know that what he thought to be looked at as the greatest symbol of love will be criticized by some poet in his own land nearly 375 years later. The insane Mughal Emperor got all the builders of the Taj Mahal's fingers cut-off of so that there could be no other Taj Mahal.
But Aurangzeb, his & Mumtaz Mahal's son overthrew his power when Shahjahan got older and locked him up in a jail at the other end of Yamuna river where the emperor then died a sad old lovelorn bedlamite person in prison. Aurangzeb was the exact opposite of his dad, he showed religious intolerance and his habits drove the empire towards its doom after his death.
But let me think this way; when I look at any picture of the Taj Mahal, what I get the first thing in mind is this: Such a CRAZY emperor who got such a beautiful monument of Egotism built!
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 11:23 AM UTC
234
You’re right—”the way is narrow”—
And “difficult the Gate”—
And “few there be”—Correct again—
That “enter in—thereat”—
‘Tis Costly—So are purples!
’Tis just the price of Breath—
With but the “Discount” of the Grave—
Termed by the Brokers—”Death“!
And after that—there’s Heaven—
The Good Man’s—”Dividend“—
And Bad Men—”go to Jail”—
I guess—
8.1k
NEW YEAR INTROSPECTION PART FOUR
the air of maturity
is breathed today
with such rarity
that what is termed
the age of majority, <
is in reality not,
it instead being
a place of minority;
it's occupants being
the selfless lot who
give freely of their proffering,
offering themselves an offering
and considering themselves
adequately advantaged
as they willingly
position becoming likely
to be taken advantage
and taken for granted
hearts ready for breaking
yet give, love, share
heal, they do,
and freely so;
therein standing
in stark contrast to
the narcissistic hoards
who protect,
with pirouetting steps,
their barren nests,
empty hearts,
and meager pockets,
ever failing to realize
that nature’s law
bestows abundance best
at the selfless giver’s behest.
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 1:31 AM UTC
To learn this gospel of that Birthing Home
A splendid way to start your own New House
Of your Man so proud; Dignity his own
Shows this Great Fixture of a Faithful Spouse
And I, envy-filled, toddlerish to Draft
To ask when my Best Time would ever come
You, Heroine's Pride, caused my Sorrows to Laugh
And boot this Troll for his Merriments done
Only for your Wish more Blessings invade
And never, ever Dream it should Resign
Which, termed Jolly, decomposed his best *****
And Danced with Gnomes your Prosperity fine.
Begging you, this Heart, please tell HER I Care
For the Flames I lit; My Penance I fare.
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 3:33 AM UTC
'Kabali' and 'Badlapur' actor Radhika Apte will be the show-stopper in the upcoming Lakme Fashion Week in the ‘Gulzar’ collections of a prominent Kolkata-based fashion designer.
“We have been working with Radhika since 'Majhi the Mountain Man' days (2015) and she will be flaunting our fabrics as show-stopper in India’s premier fashion show which is keenly followed by Bollywood," the well-known city-based woman fashion designer told media after a fashion show in a city hotel last Friday night.
The Lakme Fashion Week is a bi-annual fashion event with the summer-resort show taking place in April while the winter-festive show is held in August.
This year the winter-festive show will be held from August 24 to 28.
Radhika will be wearing bright-colored lehenga since the show will be focused on beautiful India, it’s colours and contours, choreographed with the poetry of nature by Amir Khusro, the designer said.
“It can also be termed our tribute to a great name like Gulzar saab who has brought our lyrics and poems to a new level,” the designer Saroj Jalan said.
The signature style of the designer, whose works adorn Bollywood actors like Radhika beside well known models Lisa Sharma and former Miss Universe India winner Ushoshi Sengupta, is delicate floral patterns along with the use of Zardozi and array of hand-woven tusser silk and velvet enhancing the experience of the garments and “we will project the same in the Lakme week where the accent is on ethnicity,” designer Saroj Jalan said.
Supermodel Ushoshi, having recently debuted in the Bengali film 'Egoler Chokh', said “Lakme show reflects the different tastes of all leading Indian fashion designers who are still rooted to Indian heritage.”Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 12:29 AM UTC
726
We thirst at first—’tis Nature’s Act—
And later—when we die—
A little Water supplicate—
Of fingers going by—
It intimates the finer want—
Whose adequate supply
Is that Great Water in the West—
Termed Immortality—
2.6k
I fashioned myself a dress of black lace;
Dark and elegant, epitome of grace;
Soft on my skin, caress like a lover's,
My comfort, my design, a haven of covers.
They called it macabre - filled them with unease;
Dangerous, they said, termed it a disease.
And yes, I'm unwell, but darkness is my veil -
A reprieve from hell, solace without fail.
I am the tailor, the sculptor of shadows,
The reaper of melancholy my art sows.
And yes, it is odd, fragile, morose -
The marble thorns of an obsidian rose.
The judging whispers that follow in my wake,
Can't comprehend I do this for my sake:
The sharp edges they call jarring and cold -
They are my palace, impenetrable stronghold.
Where others see emptiness, I notice lace,
The gossamer threads of a misty embrace;
They are but blind to the kingdom of nothing,
Only see moats, and wall canons jutting.
My castle of ghosts, the court I control,
Those remain hidden, deep in my soul.
The siren song, my foggy lullaby,
The velvety clouds on which my thoughts lie.
It is morphium, made in my mind
Embroidered dullness only I can find.
The words bounce off my protective bubble,
Your bombs shatter into a gray rubble.
I blow it away, along with my fears,
I got good at this, during the years.
Give me some credit, I am no fool,
Where others would drown, I can rule;
I know not to freeze, when water's too cool,
The fire you'd burn in, I use as fuel.
Yes, it's a thin line, I know it best,
But I'm a trapeze-artist, can pass the test;
A veteran of trade, the air is my nest,
I've learned to live without getting rest.
And I know my limits, how far I can press,
Worry you not, I've survived on much less.
I'm not glass, disperse your concerns,
If need be, the lace to razor wire turns.
Sep 20, 2020
Sep 20, 2020 at 6:16 AM UTC
Who will believe my verse in time to come
If it were filled with your most high deserts?
Though yet heaven knows it is but as a tomb
Which hides your life, and shows not half your parts:
If I could write the beauty of your eyes,
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
The age to come would say, “This poet lies,
Such heavenly touches ne’er touched earthly faces.”
So should my papers, yellowed with their age,
Be scorned like old men of less truth than tongue,
And your true rights be termed a poet’s rage,
And stretchèd metre of an antique song.
But were some child of yours alive that time,
You should live twice, in it and in my rhyme.
2.5k
Why is it that Poetry has never yet been subjected to that process of Dilution which has proved so advantageous to her sister-art Music? The Diluter gives us first a few notes of some well-known Air, then a dozen bars of his own, then a few more notes of the Air, and so on alternately: thus saving the listener, if not from all risk of recognising the melody at all, at least from the too-exciting transports which it might produce in a more concentrated form. The process is termed "setting" by Composers, and any one, that has ever experienced the emotion of being unexpectedly set down in a heap of mortar, will recognise the truthfulness of this happy phrase.
For truly, just as the genuine Epicure lingers lovingly over a
morsel of supreme Venison - whose every fibre seems to murmur "Excelsior!" - yet swallows, ere returning to the toothsome dainty, great mouthfuls of oatmeal-porridge and winkles: and just as the perfect Connoisseur in Claret permits himself but one delicate sip, and then tosses off a pint or more of boarding-school beer: so also -
I NEVER loved a dear Gazelle -
NOR ANYTHING THAT COST ME MUCH:
HIGH PRICES PROFIT THOSE WHO SELL,
BUT WHY SHOULD I BE FOND OF SUCH?
To glad me with his soft black eye
MY SON COMES TROTTING HOME FROM SCHOOL;
HE'S HAD A FIGHT BUT CAN'T TELL WHY -
HE ALWAYS WAS A LITTLE FOOL!
But, when he came to know me well,
HE KICKED ME OUT, HER TESTY SIRE:
AND WHEN I STAINED MY HAIR, THAT BELLE
MIGHT NOTE THE CHANGE, AND THUS ADMIRE
And love me, it was sure to dye
A MUDDY GREEN OR STARING BLUE:
WHILST ONE MIGHT TRACE, WITH HALF AN EYE,
THE STILL TRIUMPHANT CARROT THROUGH.
2.6k
Fate, the absolute tyrant -
Brings me to my desk,
And I sit down to vent
This infernal night,
As prose or verse,
Or utter hogwash -
My wasted emotions -
Which some termed rhapsodic.
I promised myself not to cry -
As the day would dawn,
And I'd wheel down the aisle.
Making myself fall prey -
To another trade
Of cash and silver and solid gold,
A car and bungalow and so much more
- Of which in detail, I wasn't told.
Though I was called a beauty
Who could leave people dazed,
With two curvy dimples,
That lit my pretty face.
People never touched me
And would look at me with shame
Tell me I looked fragile
Once they knew I was lame.
I grew within four walls -
Comfy cushions and space
And it wasn't my legs, feeble
That restricted my pace.
It was love from parents
Siblings' scorn and care
That kept me from the wisely world
To go outdoors, I never dared.
I grew up crawling on my limbs
And seeing people walk
I never wished for them to stop -
Only prayed that they wouldn't talk!
For it was not their legs, I longed for
I reveled for what I was!
I only hoped they applied thought
Before pitying, how crippled I am!
I grew up watching the world go by
Each day and night would fly
Fantasizing with what I had been blessed -
My free and 'abled' mind!
I dream of a world - filled with trust
And friends who would 'walk' with me
Who would talk to me for who I was
And not offer sympathy!
I wished for love,
And found mine, divine
In a fairy tale -
Ironic indeed!
I sang love songs,
Wrote mushy poems
Painted wild dreams -
All to him, which would eventually lead.
You must have known this little boy -
Though a flaw, he did make history.
"Pinocchio", he was fondly called
And was known as a puppet with zeal!
It was not his quest for love that struck
Nor his zest to live
For it was his gait with wooden legs,
In which I could identify me!
But my dreams were thwarted
When to a man, I was entrusted -
(Or rather, on me thrusted)
One - with no love, but legs instead.
Along with blessings
For him to take along
Ample gifts were bestowed -
To keep us betrothed!
And now I await
To be proclaimed his wife
In the presence of a world
Which always kept me deprived.
It will be dawn
And I will soon be gone -
Yet I will yearn
For my Pinocchio to return!
Nov 18, 2011
Nov 18, 2011 at 10:21 AM UTC
A cider and a minder
Passing time as a reminder
Pink glow and songs flow
A waxy time erodes the mow
Renegades and perspiration responds
Swimming in winded seas of Jordan
Heated in space, evicted in their pace
Libido fails as the liquor dilutes in taste
Catch an esse as the moonlight smite
Hold another to fake a romantic right
Filter to the cards of ace as the one winks
Emotive intruders farm in fields of pastures
Imbued with alcoholic waterfalls
Molehills of termites condense lose soil
A lack of connection a taunt that apes
Future anthems triumph in hungered strums
Amused by the music erupting volcanoes
A morrow blows as the candle slows
To tow the tall grassed disused straw
A spring to summer that promises sun rays
A resolve to moderation to preserve modesty
A kiss stored forever peeping the awing stars
To guard a heart and hatch uniformity
Trembles justly forgotten in termed premises
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 2:42 PM UTC
Gifted
Gifted means nothing to people who do not know
I don’t even know the proper definition
Strange that I do not know a part of myself?
I think not.
C’est la vie – such is life
But why must only a few be burdened with this white elephant?
Yes, a white elephant
For although termed a gift, it comes with its own price
On my school’s website, on the gifted page, there is a file
This file, entitled, giftedness; a different kind of normal
Aptly named I think
The upsides? Exactly me.
The downsides? All perfectly describe me as well
My ‘gifted’ friends are just the same
Why is this a gift if it sets us back in our standardized culture?
Sure, I ace the tests, but I can’t start projects until last minute
All because of my perfectionist side
I am a ‘deep thinker’
But I hate deadlines because they limit the
Time I spend on a good, fascinating subject
I’m considered to have the ability to motivate people
But it always comes out bossy
I'm supposed to have high standards and expectations(which I do)
But these fail me when I cannot reach them myself
Causing insecurity
These traits and numerous others all belong to my kind, the 'gifted' kids
I've noticed we're all socially inept, awkward, clumsy
To some degree or another
And I suppose this analytically mindedness comes along with my plethora of troubles
I'm supposed to have many interests, and this is true
But it also prevents me from knowing exactly what I want
I'm supposed to be very focused, detail oriented
But I cannot stand the slightest disturbance
These gifts are deemed part of the 'gifted' personality
Why can't I be normal for a change?
Being gifted really singles you out
Such a small group of us in my school
Almost all are best friends
As no one can understand us better than others just like ourselves
But why can't everyone be gifted?
Dec 11, 2012
Dec 11, 2012 at 7:16 PM UTC
814
One Day is there of the Series
Termed Thanksgiving Day.
Celebrated part at Table
Part in Memory.
Neither Patriarch nor *****
I dissect the Play
Seems it to my Hooded thinking
Reflex Holiday.
Had there been no sharp Subtraction
From the early Sum—
Not an Acre or a Caption
Where was once a Room—
Not a Mention, whose small Pebble
Wrinkled any Sea,
Unto Such, were such Assembly
’Twere Thanksgiving Day.
1.9k
Stars can only be seen in darkness,
A wealthy foundation has nothing to do with greatness,
Love is not completely selfless,
The journey to heaven is not painless.
Nothing is is actually valueless,
the boldest isn't completely fearless,
death doesn't always mean one is breathless,
And Judges are often truthless.
Denial might be an act of pureness,
Rejection a show of kindness,
Speaking up attimes can be senseless,
And a hug does not always represent oneness.
A soldiers retreat doesn't always mean weakness,
An enemy's surrender might be smartness,
A woman's smile may not be happiness,
A child's determination might be born out of emptiness.
Marraige vows are usually baseless,
We are alive because our hearts are restless,
Scientists are mostly clueless,
Psycologists usually feel helpless.
Caring for the poor might be termed madness,
But many wealthy are now homeless,
And even if we're not treated with fairness,
You and i are definitely priceless.
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 4:38 PM UTC
Short-Termed Maiden of one's Friendship's expect
Then blast my Will to incapacitate
For sharing those Clouds; Though rained your affect
Were twisted to Pure Actions constipate
Just weakened I am to even advise
Why such Hallowed Plug pulled this New Sparkle
If Profile be cased and just inconcise
Ask the Author first if you be Humble
Though such Clues do bear, un-needed to Probe
If my Key was too Foreign for your Door
I suppose, like his Age, you chose that Road
Where Blokes just party and stomp on the floor.
The Korean was right; His Dance we can learn
Though never again your Trust I can earn.
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 2:44 AM UTC
I have seen the blood of my loved ones, spilled on a dusty road;
Seen the fall of kings, powerful warriors and the bold;
The skin of mothers and little children, broken by cold;
The ancient landmarks of the fatherless, siezed and sold.
I have heard the cry of the homeless but no one there to save;
Heard the wailing of the deserted, seen the tears of the brave;
Many driven from their homelands, now hiding in caves;
And a father toiling night and day, treated as a slave.
I have heard of dreams of many, still unrealised;
The ****** daughters of priests, lured or defiled;
The goals of youths, swallowed up by pride;
And the future of generations, poorly discerned.
I have read government policies, unfavourable for the common man;
Heard of national resources, expended without concrete plans
Communities connive to eliminate a defenseless clan;
And a nation sold into modern slavery, by reckless polititians.
Many tears have droped, sweat and blood everywhere;
Many races have been run but the end seems nowhere near;
Many have waited hopelessly for a better year;
Many have stood up but crawled back for sake of fear.
A day will come when the oppressed will arise;
Like Martin Luther King Jr. did,though his blood was a price;
Like Nelson Mandela did, even though his act was termed a vice-
For the freedom of the enslaved and oppressed but the wicked's sudden demise.
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 3:26 AM UTC
(Corpus Christi, Texas-circa 1947)
It's a short block, a cul-de-sac,
total of sixteen houses lining the street.
No sidewalks, the grass ends
where the curb begins.
A lone palm tree stands in the southwest corner of the front yard.
There were no fences separating the properties
Driveways, leading to the separated garages were the markers.
That didn't stop us, however-
The neighborhood was a continuous playground.
Many families were military-
in the U S Navy,
Or civil service employees
at the Corpus Christi Naval Air Station
From those sixteen homes were twenty-three children-
some families had multiple children-
ranging from four to twelve..............I was six years old-
For the parents, finding peace and quiet
was only a dream
I learned to ride a bike on that street-
although learning how to stop it
was another issue.........
Had it not been for that lone palm tree.
I became very adept at timing-
knowing when to jump off that bike-
moments before impact-
Eventually, I learned what dad meant with
"USE THE BRAKES!"
A few bruises
some scrapes(arm or knee)
Nothing serious-
I survived!
As our parents aged, they often would reminisce about those days. Dad had two major philosophies about growing up: "Yards were made for kids to play in", and "If we can hear them, at least we know where they are!" Most of the time they were in our backyard playing on our swing and trapeze set that a family friend built for me and my brother. That yard was, basically, a "miniature park."
Our mother was, what is termed now, a "stay at home mom." She was the "overseer, watchdog, and resident medic." At least two or three times a day, she answered the phone, only to hear another mother's voice asking if their kid was over there, and if so, tell him, or her, to go home.
While reminiscing, the one thing that our father, mother, and my brother agreed on is, "That was one hell of a sturdy bike!" I never will forget that palm tree. It saved my a_ _ more than once!!
Society has changed, Donna, you're absolutely right!!
copyright: richard riddle July 20, 2015
revised: July 21, 2015
Jul 20, 2015
Jul 20, 2015 at 2:06 PM UTC
It's been one week,
since I told you,
nothing of importance.
But one week,
since you told me,
anything,
at all.
How soon I forget,
what it's like,
not to be,
at a person's disposal.
How quickly I remember,
that remembering is,
a bother.
Easy folk enjoy easy listening.
A magnet that draws sound.
Vibrations of different magnitudes.
But visually, all the same:
On a large enough body; what proceeds:
A ripple on water's edge.
Beauties and questions evoked.
Memories that hold vehemence.
Open ears that trickle red.
An eye for an eye.
A tooth for a tooth.
A *** for a ***
Sour taste, before I spit.
After all that said,
so it goes:
She is left feeling discontent,
because her friend left her behind.
A friendship no longer pragmatic,
left her detached and unkind.
After one move against her,
inadvertently made her the bad guy.
Assimilated ignorance was transferred,
leaving her with raging eyes.
Now a maniac, but once shy.
It started the day she was betrayed,
and her friend left without goodbye.
Friendship turned into a frivolous demise.
She never thought of compromise.
She will always be left on her own will.
Only living each day with empty glare.
While she sits cynically by her window sill.
Reliving old days, and perfecting her stare.
It's been one week,
since I told myself,
nothing of importance.
But one week,
since I've asked questions,
and have realized that,
in your twenties,
you are partial to saying 'No.'
Implicit No, god-forbid a subtle yes.
You know yourself.
You want to know yourself.
You hope that you know yourself.
And,
In the scheme of it all,
the ***** shopping mall,
the empty alleyways,
**** and trash,
looking down at laced shoes,
transcends society's social boundaries.
Those little moments at the end of the day,
that make you smile,
are the reason you should not become frustrated.
It would be the same,
as letting a long car ride ruin a vacation.
Thinking short-termed has never led to outstanding goals,
only temporary satisfaction.
Life is short,
but it is long enough to learn how to pick battles.
There are far more important things to worry about,
than ill intent with loved ones,
or even strangers.
If someone steps on your shoes,
let it go.
Use that frustration to better yourself,
and when you can,
buy better shoes,
and walk a mile in them.
Aug 25, 2012
Aug 25, 2012 at 3:03 AM UTC
Oh, those sixteen seconds; —
schoolings we learnt, stories on the
sixteen streets, where a few flowers
Would be daring enough to grow.
YOU!
Bystander to the narrative of six teens,
learning about life, through every twist
and curve. Take part in such an account,
for you too, to be flourished in what
Truths we learned.
I was sixteen; though that made
you feel like eighty-four in a concrete
jungle, where you heard stories of
its corruption, as it scarily roars.
The novel days, but with a broken
system of old. From feeling broke;
covering holes with holes,
— You could only tap into success by
the connections of who you know, and
they know; prior sixteen years. Henceforth
Why we all sensed being so old.
Or was it, "owed"
—dang, what youth could know?
But to be honest though, the feeling of it,
was so cold: a degree less than sixteen, for
Any flower to be frightened to grow.
As if the promise of an improved
tomorrow would never really show,
To say—"you head in your own way
and I'll be a head, ahead of you; thinking
up sixteen likely ways of where to go,
And how to go.
I was told a story by so and so,
who knew so and so, —that said,
So and so, about so and so, that a man
claimed this was the right time to sow.
He threw out his seeds; some that hit the
emotionless ground as cold sixteen stones.
Others were pierced by the cold’s thorns.
He spoke a lot of brave words and
eccentric quotes, that held with them
great wisdom and growth.
Some hard to swallow, some fell on
deaf ears, the rest gnawed by birds.
These teachings didn’t speak of being
owed, as we were told; but were
secrets he seemed to own,
That shone out of his soul.
I was sixteen, a nervous teen,
who gave this story sixteen seconds.
We were careless and obviously reckless
—a wonder of which gods ever forgave us.
Feeling cold as snow, in a place where,
it gets colder as the rain pours.
The man gave us sixteen of the most
profound words:
“Sixteen seconds of the Word,
your spirit grows, — sixteen
seconds of rain, and life will show.”
I was termed a flower in that story,
given sixteen words of advice
from a stranger I didn't really know.
And it was by age sixteen, the bud
Had started to grow.
I guess flowers are
the boldest of us all.
—on where, and through which
situation they choose to grow.
Apr 17, 2024
Apr 17, 2024 at 12:21 PM UTC
57
To venerate the simple days
Which lead the seasons by,
Needs but to remember
That from you or I,
They may take the trifle
Termed mortality!
1.5k
I saw this black
and white
photograph once
of a Deep South lynching
of two African Americans
(or black guys
as they were termed then)
hanging from a tree
by their necks
eyes closed
(as if they dozed)
dressed in rag clothes
one with his head
to one side
hands untied
a crowd looking on
one white guy pointing
the rest looking
with acute interest
what the two guys did
or why
they were lynched
I had no idea
or why the need
to photograph
a sense of justice?
or threat?
or for a laugh?
I had no clue
but looking at them
hanging there
surrounded by a crowd
I thought
of the Crucified
the Christ
and wondered
if He'd been hanged
by the neck
from some gallows
instead of being
nailed to a cross
and His followers
wore small gallows
instead of a cross
it was alter
His sacrifice
or lessen
the sense of loss?
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 1:38 AM UTC
It comes with
turmoil of feelings
love, sad and pain
thoughts of death and depression
when it bangs with 7.8
and evrything is
just lost..lost
and more lost
then they fight..
..fight harder
against the demon
whom once they
...termed as GOD
they condemn themselves
they sorrow themselves
they trust the hugs
of neighbours
as they come to normal
again it bangs with 7.4
again it lost..lost
and more lost
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 10:07 AM UTC
young love is too often undermined and discredited
labeled as “silly” or seen as a waste of time
we pay it no heed; calling it a temporary foolishness
they say we cannot fall in love when we are 16
for we have not yet seen the world or faced its worries
and our heart knows nothing of love or of loss
we are too young, they say over and over again,
we are too young to understand what love is and what love brings
we are too young to know what love stands for
or fathom the pain of lost love and a broken heart
we are too young
no
for centuries now, youthful hearts have been termed incapable of truly comprehending the essence of love
more so, they have been termed inept to ever facing true heartbreak
when the tears of mascara flow down their pink, girlish cheeks
they say
you are too young and this is not real
you do not know what love is and you will grow to understand
one day when you face real heartbreak you will think of all this as silly
you will not remember and you will laugh
cry not; for you have not truly loved nor lost
but
how many of us forget the first sleepless night we stayed up waiting for the call that wasn’t coming
how many of us forget the first time we saw them in someone else’s arms
how many of us forget the first time our heart shattered because of the utterance of a single word
“goodbye”
how many of us forget the silence which was all too loud
the tears
or the cold nights
the feeling of having your world crash and burn before your very own eyes
the vulnerability, the helplessness, knowing your heart is in another’s hands
and you can do nothing about it
tell me; how many of us forget?
cradled in your mother’s arms crying the night away
tearing at your skin, wishing his touch had not stained you
your father pacing up and down the hallway
what has happened to my little girl?
on the phone for hours
crying, yelling, whispering; losing your mind
piece by piece everything falling apart
why does it hurt so much
why does it not end?
have you forgotten? have you forgotten your first heartbreak?
no
young love may be amateur
but it is not false
so vulnerable and so ready to jump into a new life
so willing to give up everything and try to make it work
rushing into it so fast and falling into his arms
ready to give her your heart, your soul, your life
our hearts still untouched by barb wires and guard towers
our first kisses are the most memorable
we can still hear the first song we danced to in our heads
memories of us pop in to say hello every now and then
your first is always your most significant
your first is the one that never leaves you alone
you can forgive, you can accept, you can move on
you cannot disremember
young love-
the very purest
young heartbreak-
the very worst
genuine
vulnerable
& true
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 2:51 AM UTC
The things termed as coincidence,
Are nothing but magic incidents;
It is what you believe,
That you can live.
Believe and you will find it,
Trust and you will get it;
Who to trust troubles you?
It is no one else but you.
You yourself are magic,
Let things be enigmatic;
Just count on yourself,
Miracle will unleash itself.
Sep 28, 2020
Sep 28, 2020 at 2:14 AM UTC