You are not your age,
Nor the size of clothes you wear
You are not your weight,
Nor the colour of your hair
You are not your name,
Nor the dimple on your cheeks
You are all the books you read,
And all the words you speak
You are the croaking morning voice,
And the smile you try to hide
You are sweetness in your laughter,
And every tear you have cried
You are the songs you sing so loudly,
When you know you’re all alone
You’re the places you have been to,
And the one that you call home
You’re the thing that you believe in,
And the people that you love
You’re the photos in your bedroom,
And the future you dream of
You’re made of so much beauty,
But it seams that you forgot
When you decided you were defined,
By all the things you’re not.
I have a bookshelf for my heart,
And ink runs through my veins,
I’ll write you in my story,
With the typewriter in my brain.
My shelf’s getting crowded,
With all the stories I’ve penned,
Of the people who flicked through pages,
But closed the book before end.
And there’s one pushed to the very back,
That sits collecting dust,
With its title in finest writing,
“The ones who lost my trust”.
There’re books I’m scared to open,
And books I don’t ever close,
Stories of every person I’ve met,
stretched out in endless rows.
Some people have only a sentence,
While others once held a main part,
Thousands of inky footprints,
That they’ve left across my heart.
You might wonder why I do this,
Why write of people once I knew,
But I hope one day I’ll mean enough,
For someone to write about me too.
Before she burnt like blazing fire
She was Adams’s ale for ages known
Quenching the thirst of parched alone
She gave and she gave and she gave
Until she transformed from Ocean to Desert
But instead of withering from the calidity
the anguish, the agony, the affliction
She bewitched all her pain under a spell
And from her own cindering ember
Became blazing fire
Our knees and legs pried open
By cousins and uncles and men
Our bodies touched and rubbed and nudged
By all the lewd and lecherous people
Ploughed with two fingers or three
Too tender and timid to renounce and resist
Pinned legs to the ground with thy feet
It feels like rubber against an open wound
As it goes faster and faster and faster
Your mouth clogged with tissue balls
You swallow the lump in your throat
Learning the consequences of womanhood
Should’ve been learning science and math instead
Forced and stripped off brutally
That even with the bed full of safety
You are Afraid
What do you think is ugly?
A broken tooth?
A crooked nose?
A stray hair?
An extra pound?
A scarred skin?
Or a stretch mark?
No, I will tell you what’s ugly.
And selfish actions.
Look in the mirror you’ll see,
Make-up will only go so far
To hide an ugly heart.
Dubious about how to suit up in self confidence,
But savvy of the calorie consumption.
And thy heart maybe abysmal,
But thy room be knee-deep in make-up.
And thy mirror maybe fogged with disgust and disappointments,
But at least thy wardrobe brims with Gucci and Prada.
And maybe thou can be happy with solitude,
It gives you more time for materials you adore.
And thou might as well be chained to thy shopping bags,
That are filled with platinum, silver and gold.
Coz you make up for the soul thou lackest,
With the plastics, metals and materials cold.