The Gift That Hurts

 

A Fortress of Lies

 

Against the grain

 

What are you?

 

ಸುಳ್ಳಿನ ಕೋಟೆ

 

ಈ ಸಂಭಾಷಣೆ 

ಕಹಿಯಿದೆ 

ಯಾರಿಗೂ ಕಾಣದ 

ಮಸಿ ಚುಕ್ಕಿ 

ಇನ್ನೂ ಉಳಿದಿದೆ 

ಕಣ್ಣುಗಳು ಮುಚ್ಚಿದ್ದರೂ 

ಸುಳ್ಳಿನ ಮುಳ್ಳು 

ಚುಚ್ಚುತಿದೆ.  

ಸಂದರ್ಭ ಸಿಲುಕಿದೆ 

ಸುಳ್ಳಿನ ಸುಳಿಯಲಿ 

ಸೋತಿಹೆನು

ನಂಬಿದವರ ಮನದಲಿ 

ಮನಸ್ಸು ಹಿಂಡಿದೆ,

ರಕ್ತ ಕಣ್ಣೀರು ಕಾದಿದೆ.

 

ಯಾರು ಕೇಳುವರು 

ಈ ತುಸು ಕವಿಯ ಕೂಗನು 

ಕಿವಿಗಳು ಕವಕವ ಅಗಿಹವು 

ಪೋಷಕರ ಮಾಡುವ ಶೋಷಣೆ

ನೋಡಲು 

ದೇವನೂ ಗಾಂಧಾರಿ 

ಅಗಿಹನು.

ಹೌದು!

ಇದೆಲ್ಲ ಒಂದು ದೊಡ್ಡ ಸುಳ್ಳು 

ಜಗವೆಲ್ಲ ಸೇರಿ 

ನನ್ನನ್ನು ಮೌನ ಮಾಡಿಸಲು

ರಚಿಸಿದ ಒಂದು ವಿಸ್ತಾರವಾದ ಕೃತ್ಯ 

ಇದೆ ಪರಮಸತ್ಯ 

ಅಷ್ಟಕ್ಕೂ, ಕವಿತೆಯ ಅರ್ಥವೇನು?

ಪ್ರಾಸಬದ್ಧ 

ಸುಳ್ಳಿನ ಕೋಟೆ

ಅಲ್ಲವೇ?

Homemade Poison

 

Hungry was my heart,
craving for love
I never received.
I blindly believed
whatever family gave.

I nibbled on nightmares
sugarcoated with hope.
I chewed chaos
while treading on
slippery slopes.
I guzzled cheap gratitude,
while gulping on guilt.
It was a recipe for disaster.
One, where your aptitude
was to serve the one & only master
who built
you a home, a career.

Now, you owe them –
your life.
So, you’ve got to eat
at the table where
generational toxicity
serves cold stares
that cut like a knife.
You’ve got to drink
homemade poison
or go to prison
where you live
on the brink
of somber times,
writing ungrateful rhymes. 

Armageddon’s Home

Never thought I’d come home
to a war.
Cold, raging war.
One laced with silent stares.
Pretending that everyone cares.
One where words fired like bullets,
and you never lived life to the fullest.

Armageddon was home.
It never left.
Martyrs lived.
Watched games, made lunch.
Some, made a list of groceries.
Others, buried their miseries.
Deep down in the basement
of their lifeless hearts.
Where they imprisoned,
all their desires –
to speak, smile, and cry.

They were P.O.W. with no P.O.V.
Dragons in the dungeon,
waiting to breathe
fire.
And burn the world
that didn’t see them
turn into ash.
This wasn’t just a war within.
This was Armageddon
brewed in cold-blood,
at home
sweet home.

Hugging nothingness

Quiet, gentle breeze,
tells you stories
as it is.

Sitting on the bench,
watching the sunset,
you silently smile,
and your eyes get wet.

Yes, just a little moist,
because you’re a man.
Sobbing doesn’t suit you,
so scream as loudly
as you can.

Well, not out loud,
keep it down,
internalize.
You’ve got a family to raise,
not your voice.

You can’t afford a meltdown,
businesses will be in loss.
You may be the man in your house,
but outside,
there’s a line you just can’t cross.

Sure, you can have your days,
some happy hours maybe.
Chug it up, but don’t crave a hug.
And miraculously, if you get one,
don’t let the floodgates open.

Who knows what demons
you’ve been hoarding.
Unleash your chaos elsewhere.
It’s a man’s world, HAA!
For namesake.

Yeah! Kill all that’s good
left in him, so only
nothingness remains.
He won’t speak, he won’t cry,
he won’t live, neither can he die.
Is that a blessing or a curse?
For better or worse,
he’s still trying.

Being a son is hard

Promptly expelled out
of your mom’s belly,
your journey into the unknown
starts on the note
of melancholy.

Bad to the bone
you turn into a menace,
a rebel,
an emotional scapegoat.
Slowly, you turn red
in love, become a mad
romantic.

The drama makes you drop-dead
heretic.
You get employed,
your mental health,
destroyed.
Caught up in a vicious trap,
bamboozled
by vapid crap,
you tighten the noose
around your neck,
wondering what the heck
could have saved your voice,
because every time
you spoke your mind,
you became a curse
to the humankind.

“Look at me, Mom!
I’ve swallowed the storm.
I’m spinning in circles,
wrecking my own home.
If you’re thinking
how you could’ve stopped
the chaos,
you could’ve just taken a day off
to look into my barren eyes,
deprived, desolated, of a normal paradise,
hoping that one day
you would hug me so tight,
all the darkness within me
would be scared of my starlight.”
That’s all I had to say.

Nobody Will Miss Me

When I am gone,
no soul would cry
only the ones that would,
do because I failed to try
and make them proud.
I let down a thousand
people who poisoned
my heart and hoped
I survived.
I am now burning in the pyre,
with woods that got no fire.
The fury of those I left behind
are keeping the flames ablaze.
Hope this counts
as one of my best days
where I am being watched
till my brain explodes,
then everyone would depart
with my remains.
To their surprise,
for a nobody who did nothing
they filled my ashes to the brim
in an urn, hoping again
that I would return,
just to live yet another
desolated life.
I wish my tears
were made of petrol,
so when you ignited
me for the last time,
the explosion would kill
my soul too, so
that there’s nobody like me
reborn.