Why is it always speculative or imaginative ?
Till that also ends, like reality.
Will it ever end ?
There is no end to imagination
But reality has an end.
Imagination can also be killed.
She looked up from her note book , yes they issued search warrant for my imagination , used it against me. Did it work ?
There were so many reasons why I transferred what I felt and felt what I never felt. Similarities in suspecting me and suspecting me of every possible illness , a firm belief that abuse does not make a victim , instead a victim was always a victim because of a mental illness. Making me doubt my self , as though I was mentally ill. Reduplicating abuse , to make me say “No” or “Yes” ?
With out language everything is confusing.
I tried to make sense of it alone , but it reached nowhere.
It was abuse , it was violation of boundaries , however decently done.
Was I obsessed ? No. I gave up on trying to make sense.
I felt a prick in many curves
Searching for the needle
I saw your conscience
Stitching my torn dress
Then the lights went out
Darkness was warm
Finally I knew why women say
I walked away from that one man
who taught me to say “No”
I hurt you because
I did not heal
And I had the gall to see…..
I could not have pressed the
Benjamin button nor
Go to the Year of the cat
Turn back the time
And erase the Random Accessible Memory…
I could hug you over phone
You made that viral!
I wrote a poem to let you recover
You used it as evidence!
Sigh …or song none were spared……
All my strengths became vulnerabilities
I felt no lust for a man
For whom love was dispensable.
I frankly want to forget an affair
That never happened
Except in your head and
On my white dry paper…..
I have served the sentence
For writing poetry.
I am not that sort of person , nah just to show anger towards a man , I will not find another man. My love is never an expression of anger. Besides I get angry very intensely. I am like a volcano I burn the one who caused anger. I close that chapter. Not that there is blood shed or anything……. it is truly over. Then I live in that ruin. I wait to feel again. I am not an echo , I do not rebound. I am a whisper that you wish you had listened after you lose.
“What we truly see is what we are ”
There was a hermit staying in a hut outside a village, he spent all day in prayers, teaching disciples and counseling those who sought his wisdom. A prostitute stayed in a mansion built outside the village where she entertained her clients , she stayed opposite the hermit’s hut claimed that all souls were equal in the eyes of God. When they both died , hermit’s soul was in the cauldron of hell and prostitute had attained eternal bliss. Hermit asked the God of death , why such an injustice was done ? God smiled and said , recall your thoughts , recall your vision …You were constantly imagining the carnal pleasures that clients of the prostitute enjoyed , while she listened to your teaching and ardently prayed for me, even asked for death as a blessing. Hence she is with me and you are in hell……..
Moral – Intentions are more important than actions.
You made mistakes , you never knew how to handle the situation at all, I did not know my own self nor my value. In that suffocating bed I had to create a song,even if it was in the springs of the cot or wooden legs. I had to find an imaginary companion, it could not be a stony God. I tried even that. I searched with in, there were songs I had to suppress, dances I could not dance, I had to tie up my legs. Drama was so real.It was not drama at all. Why was I not enough? I had this expanding concept of loneliness, so I searched for a twin. You made it so sexual. I had to reaffirm that it was a mind. You made it so physical , I had to say it was not a body just a soul. Now, you lost my soul. It is in my poem.