Forgive me, mother!

I wish it were only a bad dream, not a strangling reality. But since I’m typing this fully awake, having consumed my stock of your lullabies, mother, let me confess you my failures. Let me show you my broken wings that cannot take me to the stars you wanted me to touch. Let me show you my hands, bereft. My heart is no longer the one, big, where your dreams would rest; it shriveled in the autumn ever since I wowed to bring you flowers.

It sure kills me to resign to the fact. To resign to the fact that your dreams will remain vain. That I’m the culprit of betraying your hopes. But mother, I have my reasons to excuse; there’s still this giant being of fate blocking my way to reach to you, to find myself.

I’m writing this because you cannot read it. Another deceit on my part but I cannot help it. I cannot tell you the truth, mour. Neither could I keep it to myself anymore. Forgive me for being a false source of your expectations! Forgive me mother!

Progression Of An Elegy

A poem is coming;
oozing through a tiny opening
of the block —

a bullet hole
from the left to the right hemisphere
in the skull of this Waziristan child.

A poem is coming
wrapped in a blood-stained sheet
upheld in a charpoy
over the shoulders of the bereaved
of a drone strike;

is coming,
screaming to be heard,
staggering under crimson curlicues,
intruding onto the blank peace,
of your apathy.

Boredom

It has never been a case with me — such protraction of a phase of boredom. The current one has really stretched from days to weeks to months and I don’t know where it intends to go from here dragging me along. When I retrospect, I find some missing links, the fading glimpse of a galaxy I used to enkindle my being from. The realization is, that I lost my inspiration and I badly need some to turn this tide of nothingness.

I wish to reconnect with the people whose presence meant colors when things became dull like they are.