The Simple Story of a Little Girl Who Waited

A travelling circus once marched into
a quiet town, predictable and unsuspecting.
The circus put on a spectacular show, 
and there she was.
A little girl in the front row.

Beautiful acrobats and funny acts,
the speakers blared and the crowd cheered
only much louder.
The little girl sat still as she stared aghast.
In a neglected corner of the stage,
was a lion in a cage.

A majestic beast chained and broken,
she was drawn to it instantly.
Called up on stage she was to pet it,
she did it with surprising familiarity.
They had crossed paths before,
this she was sure of.
They would meet again, and this time
she hoped he weren't cuffed.

The circus will return soon enough,
she was told it was to be a regular thing now.
So she waited for a day and then a week,
and till waiting became the new regular thing.

She would walk to the town’s gates each day.
You weren't there to bring me in,
she didn't want to hear the lion say!
One day she didn't make it back into town, and
some thought that she had lost her way.
But there were some romantics who could swear
that the lion came back and took her away.

Spirits

His spirit was transparent.
His spirit was dark.
Camouflaged in dim lights,
muffled by screams louder than his own,
his spirit was stark.

It was his spirit that had convinced him,
that he could jump off great heights.
That he would land on his feet, and he had.
I wish coincidence wasn’t his ally so;
I wish he had fallen down, broken a bone,
and some more.

An artist like no other, he would sing for her;
an artist to no one but her, he could read her.
His spirit condemned, she once hid from him.
And I blame her still, for then
his spirit compelled him to hide from me.

His screams silent today, his songs an echo.
A forgotten memory, but are you really?
For ‘read more books’ weren’t
words by anyone famous.
Know that a decade later, I live by them;
they were words by my alcoholic anonymous.

My Two Cents

People are always on about living each day like you don’t have another. For about a decade now, I’ve been living like there’s no tomorrow. But it hasn’t been fun. It has been sad, really. Because at the end of the day, I wouldn’t have achieved my goals. I wouldn’t be sitting on a swing set in the clouds. And so I would cry. I wish someone had told me instead that the foreseeable future was a longer time frame than I thought it to be, and so wanted it to be.

I wish that for the past decade, I had waited for that one thing that I wanted, that one person that I wanted, for another six months. I wish someone had taught me patience. This year, I am going to be patient. And I’m going to preach patience.

I’m not old, but there’s always someone who’s going to be younger than me. To that person, this year, I’ll say this- wait. True, you only live once. But tomorrow is going to be a today too. And if you wait, it might just be a better today than today is. So be patient. Don’t wait for everything to come to you with the setting of the sun today. Instead, work towards it so that when it does come to you the next day, you can enjoy it. Breathe. Smile. And wait. Live. Live with patience and I promise you that that thing you wanted, will come. That person you wanted, they’re already on their way to you.

Stereotypes

I walk straight into stereotypes.
I cannot lift that heavy parcel.
I can’t parallel park too well, either.

I walk straight into stereotypes, for
my smartphone is no more than paperweight to me.
And speaking of weight, was that bread I just ate?
Late night Skype. Tears over my body type.

A literature student. I must hate Shakespeare, and I do.
Sue me. But first, why not have a conversation or two?
I walk straight into stereotypes, ghosts of reflections past.
A curse over my head, I was sleeping when this spell was cast.

I walk straight into stereotypes.
I live in a massive pink tent,
with teddy bears and pillows and a heart with a dent.
When I’m alone, I’m lonely; I want someone to hold me.
Only then do I think of you.

I walk straight into misunderstandings.
My humour is not a place where you want to thrive.
But my volatility is no excuse for you to hide.

I may walk into stereotypes,
but so do you, dear lover.
One thing that I should have done
is judge a book by its cover.

Silhouette

She admired it, that silhouette; 
she wanted it, that silhouette.
She thought she knew 
its tints and shades.
So she chased it, that silhouette.

Dark and still, 
it was what she wasn’t; 
from a land so far,
where she been hadn’t.

The closer she went,
closer she wanted to go;
the closer it came,
farther she wanted it to go.

Many attempts of
calling out to it later,
she found that it didn’t notice her;
she realised, much to her amusement,
that it may have seen her,
but as a silhouette.

Envelope

Under the weight of a glue stick, 
it played dead; 
stomaching someone else’s story, 
tears it bled.
But worry not, sir, 
for the tears no one could see; 
silent and invisible, 
they happened to be.

Soon, the poisonous ink
had maimed its face;
soon, the poisonous ink
had written its fate.

Unable to fly,
it waited to dive to the pits;
a futile exercise, for
back under the glue it now sits.

The Sniff-Proof-ness of Disloyalties

Dogs, I believe, are like women in that if you play, in their absence, with another of their kind, one sniff and they’ll know you’ve been infidel.

What they decide to do once they’ve learnt of the betrayal, cannot be said:

• They may choose to ignore it.
• They may not choose to ignore it, but still do.
• They may bark at you and THEN ignore it.
• They may bark at you and THEN ignore you.

All I’m trying to say is this- disloyalties can never be sniff-proof.