An Innocent Murder

I open my sleepy eyes

Into the hollow dark emptiness

Of these four walls ,

Which cocoon me,

Hold me captive,

As a helpless and morbid form

Too weak to see the light.

I get up drenched

From my sad and noisy bed,

Which fails to hide

My nightmares and my phobias

That push me to the corner,

With my legs folded on my chest

As a shield to protect.

I take a look around:

I’m alone as always;

But its better this way:

At least my paranoia

Of oblivion and betrayal

Cannot stab me in the back tonight.

I sigh out of relief:

Another night I’ve managed

To hide and stay alive,

If this is what it’s called.

I curve my weak lips to smile

At my sorry self,

And at my specious victory.

But then the door creaks open,

Faint moonlight fails to reach me,

But lights up her body as she enters

The room which fills with her aura

That somehow fails to glow on me.

I remain hidden in the darkness

As she glows in her own strong aura.

I lift my face to look

At her beautiful kind face,

Her many-a-times healed form

Which told stories of the battles

Of her mean and unforgiving past.

Her aura exudes her strength

And her power to forgive.

She stands in the centre of the room

With her eyes closed as if in a trance:

A silent strife against the darkness

Which with each passing moment, leaves me.

I clutch on to the last morsels

Of the darkness of which I’ve become

A thankful parasite.

Moments pass by and my curiosity

Starts to get the better of me,

When she finally opens her eyes,

Which settles on the inhabitant of the room.

She takes a moment before she calls me

To herself in her arms, to protect me,

To promise eternal light and happiness.

Her words soothe my soul,

And I try to reach out to her,

To let her help me, caress me.

She hands me a chisel and beckons me

To bring down these walls that weaken

My mettle, and strengthens the shadows

That guard my captivity.

The cold chisel hammers into the wall,

And frees the bricks that have been

Effective in enslaving me as its prisoner.

But as the bricks fall by one,

My paranoia grows stronger,

And I begin to feel vulnerable and naked,

As I had always feared to be.

My fears now take control of me,

I realize that I belong to what I’m ridding,

Destined to be damned in the dark corner

Everlong in this never ending life.

I stab her between her chest,

She falls to the floor which fills with her blood

I reach down to collect her bones to rebuild my walls.

Epilogue:

I search for your sense of introspection,

I long for that gift of gratitude.

All you need is an intervention,

All I want is some solitude.

my first poem...

I'm so happy now...i just discovered my first written poem...It's called "ami ekjon bangali bhai"

...a speciously dark poem... ;)

I’m posting this childish poem I wrote I don’t know when but I was pretty young looking at the handwriting in the old diary and the use of the words…the poem doesn’t make sense in the first glance but I, as jobless as I am, read it around 5 times and a weird meaning came out to me. Or am I imagining it?? Well here it is for you to decide…

The big brown cat,

Sitting on the mat,

Is waiting for a rat.

While, the rat,

Sitting in the hole

Chats with a mole.

The mole says,

”Beware of the brown cat!

Who is sitting on the mat,

And waiting for a rat!”

Says the confident rat,

“I’ll take care of the cat

And call the bulldog

Who now sits with the hedgehog.”

Suddenly comes the cat,

The catch the helpless rat.

Out runs the mole,

With the news,

From the hole.

The rat deserves the right

For its life to fight

With the big brown cat.

After half an hour,

The time was pretty sour,

Comes in the dog,

With the hedgehog

And chases the big cat.

The big brown cat,

Scared it ran to the mat,

Far from the rat,

A happy day for the rat.

...a discovery...

I’m a guy who doesn’t like surprises. Rather I don’t like the idea of something not in my control. You might call this my vulnerability but I don’t fight it. But some surprise packages are meant to make you nostalgic. Surprises I discovered that I actually like. My diary, which I had lost for more than 10 years was discovered by my mom. It was hiding from me all these years locked away in a trunk in the cupboard built over the bathroom door- a poor example of architecture, I daresay. I opened the dusty diary to find my childhood self. My innocent but disturbed self 12 years ago. I scribbled whatever came to my mind that time and most of it didn’t make sense but some of it does, in a weird way. I don’t know how close I was to my dark self those days but the words seem to imply something than what is written. An unspoken plea to be heard, or perhaps to be noticed at all. Henceforth, I’ll post some of the scribbles in the diary which can be extracted from the half eaten remains...