Returning Souvenirs

You say you can only offer friendship

for my love,

I say l don't want it.

I want love, love in big forms,

love that fills every atom around me,

Love that challenges every equation.

I thought you are the one,

the one with whom they would define people.

I'm just fine to ask you to return everything,

Everything that I gave as souvenirs of my love,

Which you received as a friend.

Starting from my starings and nights waiting for your responses.

I turned to be someone I was not, for you,

I spent my time, analysing and making hypotheses on you.

So return my brain cells used for that,

the blood that rushed to my veins,

Every time I saw you.

I want my health and thoughts that I wasted for you,

The souvenirs of my love.

I have murdered my love for you,

One fine night,

I have buried the carcass of my love

In the gardens of hopelessly wandering ghosts.

The songs that I sang are waiting to be played on my recorder,

And I want you to return the efforts taken to expand my lungs,

To sing for you.

You should heal the hands my clock,

Before they die,

from the long waits.

And you ought to return,

Every mile I walked just to get a sight of you,

Every sounds I produced to get your attention,

Every story I rewound for you to listen to.

But I need a place to hide all these,

If not, every time you come,

They would come out and

Consider ruining me again.

Playing with my emotions,

hiding the truth and,

Sabotaging my life are their sports.

So I want you to return them before

they secure immense power,

Before they start growing

in me again,

And becoming a storehouse,

Of ill-fated souvenirs,

The souvenirs of my love.

A. C

Comments

THE SILENT CRY

Darkness ...at its zenith Silence.. at the sound 's lowest decibel.. I wrapped myself up into the blanket tears rolled down my cheeks.. I cried.. I cried in the dark silence silently.. No voice of my cry.. I bite my hands.. I cried silent loudly.. I cried for the dreams unfulfilled I cried thinking of my unpredicted future.. I cried thinking of my unknown death.. I cried thinking of my inabilities I cried thinking of the gifts not given to me I cried thinking of my people.. And I complained God Almighty for the miseries given to me.. ... I wiped off my tears.. I smiled. Perfect... Nothing is better than this silent loud cry..!! A.C

Kaathal - The Core Breaker of 2023

Kaathal - The Core is one of the movies of 2023 that left an ache in my heart. It's the kind of movie where you just sit and stare at the wall for hours after you finish it. I keep thinking about the pain of Mathew, Omana, Thankan and Chachan and it is something that continues to haunt me. Mathew’s pain is something that has become part of him by living the prime of his life pretending to be an integral part of a heteronormative society. His calm and meek personality is like a dormant volcano that is likely to erupt anytime. When he confronts his pain with Chachan and Omana, we see him peeling off his outer layer of crust and showing us his core. The core, that has carried deep wounds of fear and shame of coming out and confronting his fears, all this while. I don’t think I have seen a more compassionate and kind woman as Omana in recent movies. Despite being in a marriage that doesn’t fulfill her needs, she stays in it for years for the sake of Mathew. And when the right ...

Little Poem

My procrastination ends here, While the urge to write chokes my throat, My hands get paralysed as in a trance, I find excuses to write a little poem, I make up a lonely man, a distressed woman, a lovers’ quarrel, an unrequited love, But they are reluctant to play the part, Maybe i should give them a raise, Or throw a party at midnight, Maybe a few drinks might work, Only if they don’t puke. I can expect a little vandalism, Some damage to the property and a mini scandal, Possibly out of rage. But at the end when I bring my weapons, Sometimes they get scared and back off, Some may never come back, Others find it funny and mock at me, And opportunists, seeing my desperation, Attacks me with manipulation. And all these while, my three panic attacks talk to me in a different language, I try to write a little poem With a racing heart and flowing eyes, I write my little poem, tortured and broken, I end my little poem, Like a mighty warrior, Who had a pyrrhic victory.

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