futile attempts at poetry (2005)

Me,
impregnated,
with guilt,
remorse,
no faith;
no trust.
My baby,
she died,
before,
seeing the world.


They walk,
they see,
they sit,
they stand,
they talk,
they smile,
and Me;
I just look.


Life's perfect.
But others think
It's not perfect for you.
So they begin
to dig in for flaws.
And sure come up
with a whole lot of them.
That makes living
difficult of me.
I'm happy.
But they think
Something's missing;
and keep telling me so.
And then;
In the end,
I'm unhappy,
like them,
About Myself.

Happy Birthday!

The Birthday is here already.
While most people look forward to it
in anticipation of wishes,
presents and a good excuse to get out
of the work place early
without having to worry about being paid
for only half the day,
I just wonder how better off I am on
the personal, social and professional fronts from the last year.

Morose indeed.

So this year I have decided not to be
all judgy-judgeson(copyright:U),
and be happy just for myself.
For the lovely friends I have, the family always supportive
and the brains that the man above gave me to succeed in life.

The wind,
the water,
the blue skies,
sunlight,
moonlit nights.
The smell of flowers,
the wet earth,
a warm sunny day
in the winters.
A cuppa of steaming
hot coffee,
Mocha,
chocolate,
Butterflies,
Flowers.
I'm glad to be alive.

It will be a Happy Birthday indeed!

Are you here?

Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough,
A Flask of Wine,
--and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness--
And Wilderness is Paradise enow!

-Omar Khayyám