No More pleading..

Pleads

To not harm

To not beat anymore

To not give pain

Comes from the heart

Of a mother

When her children

Are being tormented

By their own father

Because they are

Close to the mother

And not him

Because they share

Their feelings with her

And not him

And the mother

Cries helplessly

Pleads for mercy

Begs for the torment

To stop

Not thinking

That the mother has

All the power

To take care of her children

And take them with her

Just as she would had done

If not for her husband

She is strong

She knows it

And could had proved also

But it was her husband

She was to face

And that made her weak

That made her a crying doll

That made her a puppet

This made her children weak

This made him strong

Because she had forgotten

That other’s weakness

Is not her strength

And vice versa

When she realized

She acted

She stood her ground

Protected her children

And now they all smile

And try to help as many as possible..

What about the father?

No one cares..

angel-tears

P.S. :  And here ends another month, another September and today’s choice is When September ends of Green day 🙂

stumble upon a writer..

Am I the protagonist?
In real life, may be.
In fiction, of course, who ain’t?
A normal person
Thinks the same.
But what about a writer?
What does he think?
Does he always have to sit
At a coffee shop to
Feel the plethora of ideas
Rushing to him?
Or does he have to
Dream about them
And then write
And make his dream
The dream of others
Made by the beautiful, knitted words
The world of words
Sometimes written
By a pen or typed
And in the days
When these plethora of ideas
Keep on rushing
Even though you shut your brain
You gotta take help
Of a broken pencil or even a nib
To write them
And give your ideas power
And strength to shake the world
Having the rug swept out from under your feet
Tumble you down
So that you can stumble upon a writer
Within you
And give them words
And make them shout out loud…

writers-block

This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.

wowbadge

This post is featured in WOW – Write Over The Weekend By BlogAdda

Always on meds..

Meds

I don’t suffer from ill-health or temperature

I suffer from love

Love that doesn’t see me

Love that doesn’t want to see me

Love that is not felt for me

Love that is non-existent

Love is my disease

And I am the patient

Always injured

Always suffering

Always admitted

Always on meds

Known as friends

Who give me strength

To accept and to forget

This contagious disease..

Zillion little pieces..

That frown

That slap

That pinch

That belt

That stick

That kick

That shouts

That hair pulling

That beatings

That behavior

That all had less

Impact on me

Thinking that

They are my parents

They have the rights

To torture me here & there

All was bearable

Until That fucking moment

When they said

Wish you were never born

And I was

Drained of all the hope

Of all the strength

Of that little amount of happiness

As if the carpet was pulled

From under my feet

I was broken into

Zillion little pieces

All scattered everywhere

I myself didn’t know

How to fix own self

So started living in the moment

Living the next 24 hours at a time

Not think much

Rather not think at all

Started all alone then

Now have some friends

With the same past as me

But I know we all got

Bigger better roads ahead

Because we got one another’s back

No matter the hard times..

Game of tiptoeing..

When I was a kid,

I used to tip toe go to kitchen,

During the noon time,

When my mother was asleep,

So that I can have some cream biscuits,

Without her knowledge.

But in the evening,

She calls me and takes my class,

For eating those biscuits on a regular basis.

She didn’t changed the place of those biscuits,

Because she loved my tip-toeing and having those biscuits,

And thinking that I can fool my mother,

Who know me more than I know myself.


 

Now, the table has turned.

I loved her beauty, her smile, her truthfulness,

And this time, my mother tip-toed,

And went to meet her and said,

To leave me and go far away from me,

Because my father don’t like her,

And my girl left me, without telling me,

And I thought that it was fate and we weren’t meant to be a together,

But then when I came to know what had really happened,

I cursed my mother, my girl, everyone, even God,

Because then I hated this game of tip-toe,

This game of pretendness.

This game of keeping cards close to your chest,

This game of not putting everything on the table,

This game of thinking that others are fool,

And you are the only smart guy.

I hate this sham!!

Love.. In a few words..