Day: July 10, 2008

Together We Stood, Alone We Fell

poetry

They have made a statue of us for all the pain and misery that can never be washed away.
We were the ones who never got what they deserved.
We were meant to survive when others live. Do they live,though?
Or is it one more puerile misconception?
Harassing thoughts of us trampled on and made to scrounge for food.
We were fools the day we let ourselves get born.

So many dawns and evenings passing us by, with us stuck and sticky with anguish and fear that we may die unfulfilled, unmade. So much space, and air wasted on us. We were innocent, incapacitated with our defective will to life. We were shells; beautiful and redundant in this painful harrowing world beauty. Where was the awe, the worship owed to all the pretty things created just for us? The sun smiled and our limbs shivered and shrieked out of weariness from the sun that only does as expected warming skins and things. A terrible understanding of our undignified, unsettling collection of hours, while our bodies gradually turn to dust.

We were companions of misfortune in our young tender years; disasters at every corner.Yet, we would imagine and dream a god dying for our sins and no one else’ s.
But between oceans, and lands; vast, painfully vast, we became strangers…

The other

poetry

I thought I would remove the “self” from my convoluted mind
the self which only exists, contorted, exalted in your eyes
to please you or revolt you; the other

There won’t be no prickling shame if it weren’t for you-the other
the other’ s self I can’t escape or hide from

I would erase you if it weren’t a crime-sin and more shame from the other
the other’ s self which resists, galvanized and contrived by my brain
taught to hallucinate you and accept you; the other

It’s as if we are back to back and each facing a mirror where we’d sometimes
catch each other’ reflections; A vision where we can never meet- the other

I ought to shed my “self” and your “self” from my awareness’s shelf
maybe it’s all a mirage where nothing subsists beyond our selves.

[If] death’s-agreeable and unpredictable,
why walk away?
After all there won’t be no needling pain if it weren’t for you- the other
the true other – I can’t ever hold or get close to.

Till I’m 30

poetry

It might be nice to be 30,
or older, so that my
feelings would not be hurt so
when both Uzbek and American
students label me as such;
or I could admit to myself
that my premature male-pattern-
baldness could be read as a
symbol of having lived 30+ years.
However, I choose to believe that
my baldness isn’t that bad,
and it won’t be for the next
three years, four months, and seventeen days.