Poetry. One word yet very powerful. It's a little funny how we pen down feelings both light and dark everyday and we give them a name. We categorise them as a poem yet we don't think about how therapeutic that one word is.
I found poetry during the darkest phase of my life. The time I believed I had nothing left to live for. The first poem I wrote scared someone I considered a friend. I posted it online. He called and refused to get off the phone till he was sure I was alright. I won't bore you with the details.
This here is one of my earliest poems. I don't remember when I wrote it or what I was thinking about.
Grief. This, I always run away from. When you lose one too many loved ones, you tend to stay away. But one thing I've learned is that you can't really run away from it. You just have to face it or the healing will never come. I'm this person whose feelings are always on the surface, but I can mask it so well that the person next to me won't notice a thing. I'm that good. It's a blessing and also a curse.
For a year, I struggled with pain, both mine and my Mamas. I watched her suffer and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. I buried and swallowed till I couldn't anymore. It's a miracle I'm walking around today, sane and all. Maybe the diary series I started when I couldn't keep things in again did the trick. Everyday, I would write down what I felt. When I watched life leave her body,when I kept touching her till she turned completely cold, there was nothing left to feel.
Do you remember the sound
Which wakes you each morning?
Is it the chirping of birds,
The shouts of the neighbours children,
The snoring of a lover,
Or the soft fingers of your little one?
What did they call you as a child?
What do they call you now?
Is it the same sweetness they named me?
I wonder if they lied to you too,
And if like me you tried to live up to it.
Do you still believe them?
Do you know pain and aloneness?
The type that wakes you each morning,
Silently telling you fake it once more.
Do you close your eyes to it
While quietly turning it into a sound?
Do you accept it and bask in it?
When did you recognise who you are?
How did you discover your real name?
I am a wild child.
Wildness is me and I am it.
I wake each morning wanting more.
Is it the same for you?
Do you have dreams?
Do you feed your unquiet soul?
Do you derive pleasure from any of it,
Or you live each day waiting for it to end?
Does it make your heart beat faster?
Are you happy?
I like to think that I've gotten to a place where I can share a part of my grief. That's probably why I'm writing this. There're still days I wake too tired. I like to blame it on work and things. The spontaneous tears still happen. I'm yet to get to that part where the happy memories are all that's left. For a long time I blamed myself. If I had done or said things differently, she might still be here. Maybe I still do. I have a lot to say, but I still struggle to find the words.
One day, I'll tell you all about it. Love too. For now, one more poetry.
A day has finally come
When all I want to do is live
I used to wish I could fly away
To a land where there's peace and harmony
My definition of peace was quietude, loneliness even
I wanted it so badly it hurts
Now, I'm born anew
And all I want to stay present
For the people I love and who love me
Peace can be right here with me
I raise my face to the sun
I let the air caress my face
I watch the wind play with my hair
The trees all make sense now
I find comfort in their shades
And the smell of unripe fruits
I sit under them reminiscing
About the blessings of nature
How gently the branches sway
How colourful the fields are
I do not recognise my tired soul
It's all I've known all my life
Still, I can't find it
The chaos in my mind have disappeared
The uncertainties are all gone
The voices and fears, silent
I'm on a path of redemption
Not from sins or betrayals
I'm yet to find what I'm seeking
But I'm not worried about the answer
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