Details |
Ashvika Jain Poem
She never got spoon-fed and started licking off the knives
But knives cut her tongue
Her home is in the white spaces but not the words
You claim to know the flower, but do you know its pollen grains?
"You are fit so get over it", they said
"Don't be a drama queen", they said
But are they aware of her prison, the ball and a chain
They hear the dialogue but not the disclaimers
Found comfort in the storm,
She vented and vents went into other rooms
The plate was half empty and still, people beseeched for food
She's breathing with a plastic bag over her head
Was the oil in the water
Cooked the dinner and washed the dishes
Watered the dead flowers in the hope of a garden
A champagne bottle shaken up by her thoughts
Allergic to her image
Toiled to find her Antony to Cleopatra but found Lago instead
In a toxic relationship with an emotionally unavailable Man
When people got a new phone, they tossed the old one
Darkness lurked behind, consuming part by part every day
She reread the novels in the hope of a different ending
She was the butterfly which never saw her wings
She's sinking in quicksand with a heart attack and people claim to help her when they are just 3 feet away,
How many times has she failed to pull the trigger and used a pen instead,
Sat on the bathroom floor holding a shiny way out, painted lines on her shoulders, crimson magic flowing
Her lips perfectly parted and her eyes glittered with her tears
That's right, you don't know this so do you even know her at all?
Copyright © Ashvika Jain | Year Posted 2023
|
Details |
Ashvika Jain Poem
The other day my friend asked me,
“What is life? Is it the days we live or the dreams we dream?”
Don’t know how I did that, but most of the time,
I just added a question mark to my answers and got away with a diplomatic reply.
No wonder I did the same here.
“ain't it the days we live that we call Life?” I replied (I asked)
We all are destined for something,
So why be afraid to know beforehand,
if the problems are arriving?
Ignorance is clouding my mind.
All the signs coming on my way.
But difficult to interpret like a needle stick in hay,
I wish the walls could speak;
Then I would know…
One day when the sun rose in the west,
I was pretty confident and could finally rest.
All those frustrations and anger,
The dilemma of choices
Were as easy to control as a pie.
The insecurity of failing or tragedy was gone.
Finally, I heaved a sigh of relief.
and focused on a different belief.
We could hear the song; "Writings on the Wall" by Sam Smith;
Being played somewhere far in the November cold.
It made us reminisce about all the good old days gone by,
Dark ages slowly creeping in
and how we will never get them back.
because it is a writing on the wall
Living is just a brief encounter with the pending death.
Copyright © Ashvika Jain | Year Posted 2023
|