Inside Out

I write away my sorrow

It is the only way I know.

Spilling ink thicker than blood.

Leaving behind words in place of scars. 

They said, Be the change and the world will follow.

I pretend to be reborn.

I tell myself that I am the change.

And the world did follow,

On Instagram to mock at my expense.

Some people see a few familiar faces and call it home.

What if I need to look at hearts and not faces?

When I look through those chunks of rock

Will I still be able to tell them apart?

This mind of mine colourfully black and white,

Scatters them into piles of two

They all judge me for my depth

Some look at my pockets and some my poetry. 

© Abirami

Why?

A tiny speck of dust, I, float in measureless oceans of space. All I am is a vacant stare amidst a seemingly sophisticated world where I will never belong. Lost in a trance in a crowd doing the happy dance. Will faking a smile earn me an offer to stay? I never think twice about the price I’ve had to pay. Yes there was once a time when I would have liked to be understood. The time when I gave up reality for delusion, endorsing a new attitude and a made up passion. You see, the safety of monotony can mask the missing happiness.

© Abirami

THE THINGS WE DO FOR LOVE. 

We have all fallen victim to, and indulged in the delivery of some cheesy lines. We do this sort of thing. Make promises of forever. It’s not much of an exaggeration as it something we say in the heat of the moment. But when push comes to shove, what would you really do for your loved one? How far would you go?

Most of these promises we make, are about situations we’d most likely not encounter in daily life. I’m not a soldier, I don’t think I’ll ever have to take a bullet for anyone. I don’t think I’ll be scaling mountains for anyone any time soon, seeing as I’m not an avid trekker. 

When I think about all the things I’d do for love, I guess the first and foremost thing would be to make real promises, about real things, you’d do for them in – yes you guessed it! -REAL situations.

I promise to be there for every little thing, because when it’s you, nothing is little. I promise to put your feelings above mine when we fight, because you matter more. I promise to shower you with love, whenever you’re sad so that you always have a reason to smile. Life will be hard. There’s no denying that. But, I promise to stay by you no matter how hard it gets.

– Abirami.

What kind of a writer am I? 

What kind of a writer am I,

If all I can write about is love or hate.

What kind of a writer am I,

If rhymes are the deciding factor of my fate. 

What kind of a writer am I,

If truth is my prominent style.

What kind of a writer am I,

If nothing I write makes it seem worthwhile. 

What kind of a writer am I,

If my choices are the roads less travelled by

What kind of a writer am I,

If I knew the darkest corners of the world but had to ask you,

“Who am I?” 

– The Obsessive writer.

© Abirami

Resurrection – A Journal Entry Of Sorts.

I’ve been thinking a lot and writing very little. So many trains of thought yet, nothing passed the screening test. They were too real and there is nothing quite as unimpressive as real life. No one wants to read that shit, I told myself. So I went on stringing together, pretty strains of meaningless words. I threw in a few rhymes into the mix and stirred until I got some perfectionist poetry. I looked at my creation, the captivating beauty that it was. All the praises soothed my greedy heart. But it didn’t last very long.

It’s like the conscious mind has a reset button. Every night, all your values are wiped clean and the next day you wake up a new person. Ashamed of my shallow past, the voices in my head wept. What about all your hopes and fears? What about all those nights you spent dreaming?  I found them buried, in a lonely corner. A solemn grave for everything I stood for.

The worst kind of death is when you stop living for yourself.

– Abirami.

The Life of a Writer.

A life on clouds made of what could have beens, where obvious thoughts always seem out of reach but conjuring up new worlds is as easy as breathing. A passion fully driven by the fear of censure and miniscule hopes of recognition. What was reality yesterday fades out of memory today and comes uncalled tomorrow. Determination that turns into procrastination after sudden fits of inadvertency as the goal is never permanent. A convenient oscillation between accomplishment and pleasure which once started out as the same thing. It is a life of delusional captivity.. a delusion that seems real enough to believe in, letting loose the grasp of reality.

© Abirami