Sculpted

Preparing felt a burden then, Because the performance never improved.

I Will Die Happy

In the forest of green, I ought to see the brown. Everyone restless to see the moon, I wanted a hindrance promised by the clouds. A fury hidden beneath me, I was the bearer of the burning crown. Turning the leaves in the ashes of nature, I found solace in the cracks of drought. My eyes were a curse, mind as well, Was I trapped in a spellbound? With the desire of another wound, I peeked inside my hatred profound. Relics of my happiness unalive, Made me suffer the pain they gave me throughout. Unaware of the path I'll choose, 'I will die happy' I vowed.

~ark

Belonging

I let people go while I hold onto things. People drift apart, flowing rivers and I remain a shore, holding onto their fragments. The letters they wrote, the illustrations, the conversations, I preserve them, becoming soil, fertile and fruitful.

I hold onto memories, capturing the person I know would change eventually. Who finds the same person twice even in the same person anyway?

So, thereby, my efforts are never focused on caging the flowing river rather, take a part of it and make it a part of mine. 

Be it good or bad, I absorb everything to nurture my being, to experience bliss and pain, to experience fertility, to experience solitude when called barren.

The rivers become a medium of change sometimes, I flow through them, my silt deposited where it didn’t belong but still absorbs in it, becoming a part of something different yet I remain different. 

I wonder whether my identity of being silt was just an imagination. Being a human, I must be a river, ever flowing, irrigating fields of livelihood, ever changing, giving and taking yet never keeping.

But that’s where the difference came. I too give and take but after making it mine. 

I possess; hence, I belong. I belong; hence, I remain trapped.

The Changed Tables

The tables stood there,

Watching new faces every year.

The words unsaid,

Were written on them everywhere.

Tired minds laid,

The tables wiped the shed tears.

Handling the burden of books,

It was their duty,

That I couldn't share.

Years after, I visited them,

Venting out my fears.

The tables stood there,

Watching new faces every year.

But today they had changed,

Maybe I could've changed earlier.

~ark

They'll Too

The situation I had been in, Was the situation they were in. I wanted to warn them, As I already knew the end, But I decided against it. As I was the one who ignored the warnings too, And I knew they'll too. Thinking, The way I realised, They'll realise too. The way I learned, They'll learn too.

~ark

December 2024?

Wasn't it 2019 yesterday?

Guilt

The urge to remain where we are, not wanting to move, not wanting to change and then feeling guilty for not achieving, for not changing, for not beginning, for not ending, for not continuing.

Standing in front of the mirror yet avoiding it to not witness the failure achieved, to avoid the reflection of the coward who refused to give the best, who chose to ignore everything.

The guilt of not putting efforts and then reading the disappointed expressions hidden beneath the acts of consolation. To show that you worked when you never did and when they say, “At least you gave your best. That’s what matters” 

How do you break it to them? How do you present your cowardness, your lethargy, your unfaithfulness. And then, you opt for a path you never thought you would take. You become something with a void building within. All the emotions that were never expressed eventually stop hurting, they become a habit. The void gradually growing consumes all the emotions leaving a creature too selfish to even care. Showing acceptance for something you should’ve fought harder for but you leave it, you leave yourself where you were.

But in all of this, one thing remains,

The guilt of not feeling guilty. The constant war to define it, to categorise it as justification or an excuse. But these words seem inappropriate, what do you think would fit?

Cowardice, distracted, remiss or the inertia of not moving ahead from the information to know the difference to the wisdom of making one?

The Table

She sat on the table, She thought, she brought meaning to. But she was just an entertaining label, That was thrown away, The day her consciousness grew. She still sat on the same place, Not to make them feel what they lost, But because her identity belonged, To the people with her path once crossed.

~ark

Identity

Who am I, if not a poet? What am I, if not a writer? What is my existence, And what is my purpose?

How do I relieve myself of these emotions, If not by bleeding myself on paper? How do I express myself to the world, If not by baring myself for everyone to see? What is my comfort, if not being vulnerable with words? Where do I go, if not to pen and paper? To whom do I share my happiness, sadness, My sorrows, and guilt? Where do I let out my anger, Before it turns me cold and sharp? Where do I pour out the storm, Before it drowns me? Tell me, what do I do, If not write?

Who am I, if not a poet? What am I, if not a writer? What is my existence, And what is my purpose?

©Pen_Pain_Poetry

The Real World

In the world of lies, She lied too. In order to survive, She smiled too. All the relations formed, On the foundation of the feelings suppressed, Blinded by the fake world, She lost her conscious and herself. The artificial skin worn once, Was now a part of what she called her own. Afraid to be alone, Being a part of darkness, She couldn’t bear the light which made her true self being shown. The world she was born in, Ripped her bare, calling it an act of kindness. Their plan about to begin, They smiled at her while the mask hid their evil grin. She laid bleeding alone, Blending in the darkness of her hidden sins.

~ark