The Balancing Act

For me , it is easier to write poems because in few lines I am able to say a lot.  Many times the poem may not be what it actually looks like, it might be having a totally different meaning than what it actually gives out.  In some way we are all like poems aren't we?? projecting our life in such a way that it actually does not have any similarity to the life we are living every day but at the same time it puts a beautiful matching garb over it expertly. Now not every one is a poet but we all carry some sort of poetry in our life.  Just like a poem gives out it's apparent meaning in it's  stanzas through imagery or alliteration we give out  our entire life story through our body language, our expressions, our social media accounts.  Now a days these are the nuances based on which people assume about our life.  The better photos I have, the happier posts I put up, happier my life looks. So easy! During my college days when as a Literature student I had ...

 when waves crashes on to the shore white, stark  memories soar when deep orange  sun seeps into oceans lap aching  grey thoughts deepens its clasp when lonely shadows glide in glistening sands heart bleeds on shards of    piercing glass when stars adorn deep blue night skies faded flowers in  dusty  pages silently cries  when dawn peers through the arched window panes streaming  tears leaves salty soulful stains when waves crashes on to the shore white, stark memories soar...

Seeping through the leaves, and the jumbled fragrance of  rose apple tree a slice of sunlight dwindled to escape as a mishmash of colours at the far end of the courtyard , whimpering to wail whilst slipping on to the brass urli, falling on to the blue water lily lying leisurely , fumbling to forget  the tight clasp of brown mud that she left behind on the gullible , green water bouncing off it, the light tumbled down bit farther on to the shadow with  black hair bursting out of grey roots longing to go dowdy. to cup the face.. uncouth, invisible till the dark circles jumped, cut the light into pieces, like a prism  only not sparkling rays, but fistful of  salt and rock pooled around it....  crinkled, cracked then vanished through the travails of a muffled stain

I am short of words they only sear me like swords tumbling down from others they only just smothers I am heavy with emotions  only tears steer them in motion crumbling all my achievements  to only appear as sorrowful bereavements I am devoid  of any will   the only way left is to kill only desire is to lay to rest this weary body and soul to its final nest