The Curious Case of the Reader and the Writer

Most days, 

I am a pingpong ball 

Between two mortal parts of me.

Holden Caulfield calls out my name,

From the book that I just kept aside,

To write

About a thought that was just born

Right around the sharp corner

Inside the labyrinth of my mind.

He was never a catcher​, I suppose

For I hop onto my train of thought

To travel miles away to mystic lands

Before he can lure me in, again.

Unlike today,

Most days,

The writer in me remains dormant,

Hesitant,

Uninspired,

Partly because Mr. Darcy seems more intriguing​

Than ranting about a writer’s block.

It’s far too much effort to negate a weakness

By romanticizing it, you see.

So,

Most days,

The immortal reader in me

Wins the tug of war against the mortal writer,

Who is tuned in

To the frequency of Denial 101:

A channel of self criticism.

Although,

Most days,

These two act more like Zeus and Posiedon,

Than enemies at war.

So, when I curl up in the warm folds of reading,

It tells me to go live my life,

And write my heart out.

And when I make myself comfortable

On a coffee date with writing,

It tells me to follow my heart,

And write again.

Yet,

Unlike most days,

Today,

Scout finally let Atticus Finch go to the courthouse,

And with that,

The reader rested in peace for a while,

As the writer

Surrendered to the poet

Who stealthily

Completed this poem.

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Hi!

It’s National Poetry Writing month this April and I couldn’t be more excited/nervous.

I know i have been inactive for far too long, and I want to apologise deeply for that.

But now, to make ammends, I am taking on the 30/30 challenge . Each day. One poem. 

I hope you guys like it. 🙂

Happy writing!

THIS CORRIDOR 


I am here again.

Silence and absence,
Inhabit this place, as always,
Playing hide and seek with me. Waiting.
Waiting for me to give in.
There’s something else too,
Something passive.
Invisible, almost inexistent.
Yet, like ozone, it corrodes me from the inside,
The pain seething through my veins, 
Growing more intense with each step that I take.
Something passive,
Yet active , due to the very reason of my existence-
Dreams, broken unbroken.
Things, spoken unspoken.
Memories, lost and forgotten,
Which lie here in the path, crushed, like broken glass,
Waiting for me to walk through it.

 This path I walk through, is a world between several worlds

Like a network hub,
Only , this time it connects several rooms instead of Ethernet cables.
And these rooms, each of them carry some of my integral parts.
As if I was a flower, and someone tore my petals and put them separately in these rooms.
The first few of these are merry, filled with all the good memories.
People, places, laughters sprinkled all over the little exhibitions of my life, 
In these rooms.
Solitude, solace, satisfaction come next,
Which slowly give way to something more intense-
Passions, anxieties, anger.
I stumble over particles of sand turning into pieces of glass,
Choking over the air I breathe.
I peek into the next room,
And I see my most aching heartbreaks, my worst fears, everything I couldn’t achieve.
I want to shout, but speech deceives me,
I want to comprehend, but thoughts fail me.
There’s nothing I can do but move ahead, its almost like this place forces me to.
And finally,
Towards the end, its something I dread the most-
My regrets,
leading to,
Inevitable death.

I compel myself to open my eyes.
I know this dream, this corridor, 
I have visited it often, at nights, in swevens.
Only this time it is not a dream,
And this is the first and the last time I am visiting this corridor. 

image

When you get to watch this little creature transform from an egg to well, the beautiful bird it became- just outside your window, your faith rises just a little bit more in God’s creativity.
And by the way, this little guy’s mother didnt let anybody go into the balcony for almost a month!