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Chinmayee Dandibhotla Poem
The shattered remains of what I once had,
The hollow dreams still quite tall,
My mind of chaos driving me mad,
All behind a huge, transparent wall.
I hung my head low, slumped down.
I searched aimlessly in the darkness.
A picture lay there; on my face a frown,
But what was left of them all, they called it silence.
I caressed the picture,
My thoughts haywire,
The world is sinister,
Burning me up like fire.
Who am I? A meek peasant.
Knew no more than hardened violence,
A burdened past, a tortured present,
And what lay beyond, they called it silence.
Sorrow gripped me on the inside,
Lifeless and shriveled from within,
Merely spectating the secrets, they still hide,
Hoping that once again I could begin.
Sacked of my people, my life,
All while hiding under a veil of pretense,
Blaming me for the start of a strife,
And what they didn't need, they called it silence.
I let it calm down,
The whirlwind in my mind.
The warmth and laughter, I had them drown,
No place for joy will I ever find.
I ripped the photograph, my elixir.
The fire crackled in the distance,
All gone, I was forced to surrender,
And all that was mine, they called it silence.
Copyright © Chinmayee Dandibhotla | Year Posted 2025
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Details |
Chinmayee Dandibhotla Poem
A little girl she was, innocent and small,
Until time had progressed and she was tall.
She would wonder about the future, how nice it would be,
What career would she choose, what life she would lead.
Her path was long, and goal was far.
Yet she strove and struggled and reached it after all.
Then, days passed on and so did her anxieties.
She was aging and aging and so were her worries.
She didn’t know how to express them and so she was left,
Her hard-earned money which she had kept
Was taken away by the people she called her own.
For them, she was of no use and so she was thrown
Into the streets abandoned and disowned.
She was old and scared and feared everyone,
Everyone mocked her as the one who was shunned.
She would ask for money and beg for food.
But those days were of the sinful; not of the good.
Some days were fruitful; some days were not.
There wasn’t a person in the town she hadn’t sought.
But when I met her, I saw something else.
Her face hid a story and her wrinkles explained.
Her eyes had a twinkle that said the girl within wasn’t dead.
She had the potential to be independent again.
But she said she traveled a path of disdain
And that she would never ever relive it AGAIN.
Copyright © Chinmayee Dandibhotla | Year Posted 2025
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