A MOTHER'S LAMENT

Who do you blame
 When a leaf Falls off a tree?
The wind that blew it away?
The branch that never let it stay,
Or the leaf, wanting to let go, To break free?

A hundred miles lie between us, My son.
The roads, the seas, the vines curled
The trees, the stars, another world.
To them, I shall let you go, my only one!

Heartless and cold, your mother is not
Anger, despair and grief, she does feel.
But to your love’s strange demands, I shall keel
And in the cave of tears, not be caught.

So go, my son! Live your dream!
Go to the crafty world, Her tempting sheen!
I shall not stop. I refuse to weep.
You, from your heart’s deafening roar, I shall not keep.
                                              

                                               The leaf has fallen off its tree.                                              
                                                Leaving me in his love’s clutches, and him – free.

Does It Really Matter?

“Where are you going?”, he asks

Taking a long drag off his time-worn cigar

A long drag off his time-worn self.

 

Biting my tongue and placing my

Perplexed dispositions all too clearly,

My lips form the words – “I do not know.”

 

His eyes are uncharacteristically lucid,

His face – uncharacteristically keen.

“Then, does it really matter?”

And the winds below the moment away.

Endless Night

 Be quiet, let me sleep

 I am done with the days toil,

 The work, the competition, the promises 

The noise, the laughter And the sympathy 

Don't you feel my plight? Won't you let me be? 

Or will you continue with,

 Your ununderstandable demands, 

Until you are perfectly sated?

 The trials, the torture, the doubts

 The fear, the criticism and the hatred.

 Your questions I haven't any answers to,

 The pressure of being indebted 

Leave me!

 Let me succumb to the pleasures of sleep 

That uninhibited, unfathomable spasm

 Of unfeeling trance.

 Let me go.

 Let me be.

Because I've Been Asked This Too Many Times

I write because I can. I write because I am sheltered person, who like the rest of my tribe has an opinion about all things under the sun. I write because I find pleasure in thinking ill of the world and its people. I do no write for you, or my parents or the handful of people who’ve loved me and hated me. The world has too many books and too few trees. I write for deadlines and longing. I write because my pen demands me to. I do not write out of frivolousness, I write with my sweat and my blood. I write as much out of jealousy and spite and ignorance as I write with love and hope and tears. I write for myself. And in doing so, I write things I want to read. I write things I don’t like, and then things I fall in love with. I get frustrated, kill a few people in my head and vow never to write again. I criticize, throw tantrums and rip off pages. And then I rewrite.