THE FORGOTTEN STORIES

    Every week I come to the lake,  To talk and look at you as always,  But sometimes I feel you don't listen And you have gone too far.  I remember the day we met,  You came to me like summer,  Bright and shining  Fresh and green as the summer garden.  The tiny pimples on your cheek Said hello to me.  I remember how we connected,  And before we know,  We became inseparable,  Like a neatly solved jigsaw puzzle,  We solved each other.  Our friendship thrived through hard times,  And we survived most storms together,  Seeking shelter in each other's arms.  But never did I realise the mechanics of the mind,  Your mind worked in mysterious ways and whenever I tried to enter,  You shut the doors and sealed them.  You never reached out for help or a tissue,  But kept on amusing me with your buffoonery.  It was only when your cold body was taken out of the lake,  I realized you were more than a buffoon,  You danced with a heavy heart,  And I saw the bruises from dancing on your cold l

  I hear murmurings from the graveyard In the West of the town,  Of married women,  Dead and disappeared years ago.  I wonder what a time they had,  What a life they lived.  Their husbands weep and weep and forget them,  They praise how they looked after their women,  Covering in glittery gold,  Buying them silly silks,  Giving makeup for a make-over.  But still, the women murmur,  Their voices seem to break the edges of tombs.  They force the sun to dry out the flowers on them quickly.  I lowered my face and listened to the tombs,  It seems their lipstick was revolting,  Their eyelashes lifted to show the desperation.  They talk about the lies they had to live through,  In fear of strangers' pointing fingers on getting a hint on their unhappy marriages.  They call out their abusive partners,  Told me to look for the broken bangles behind the kitchen for proof,  The blood-stained clothes that were never washed,  Lay hidden from neighbours and relatives,  Who praises the happy coupl

  Most nights we are alone,  Trying to form a shape,  Wrecking with the pain of a bleeding heart,  In desperation to flatten the lump formed in the throat,  Trying to keep it as calm as possible Not to wake our partners beside us.  Most nights we are alone,  Clenching onto pillows,  Playing loud music,  Pretending sleep,  While we writhe in pain.  Most nights we are alone,  Thinking of faces that promised company,  Faces of people we assumed would hug us,  Hands that we thought would caress us,  And talks that we registered would soothe us.  Most nights we are alone,  Peeling off our gender,  Searching for an identity,  Making sense of our essence,  Organizing our anger,  Revolting against the structure,  Living past the breaking point,  Storming a mysterious body.  Most nights we are alone,  Cursing the dreams we believed,  Blaming the instincts that spurred on dubious actions,  Marking the words we spat out without tasting and Lines we crossed, forgetting our position in the 'sys

  Kate Winslet as Mare Sheehan in 'Mare of Easttown' gives us the perfect portrayal of middle aged woman that we have been wanting for so long. Instead of giving us the sexualized, all perfect, extremely talented and beautiful typical heroine, we have Mare who is shown as a normal human being, flawed, at times selfish, unglamorous with a bulgy belly. As humans, we are not perfect, we are flawed at certain ways. Similarly Mare do not have a perfect relationship with everyone around her. She doesn't try to  work on it just in the fear of facing it. We listen people constantly reminding us "to face our demons" , but that's not easy as heard. We all are afraid to the core of reliving all the past, the traumas, the unsaid words, the mistakes, the happy moments. Mare is one of us. It requires a lot of time and courage to face our fears after several failed confrontations like Mare. She is expected by everyone to fulfill her duties as a mother, daughter,wife and frie

   Today is my birthday.  My father surprised me with a huge cake And gifted me many presents.  When he told me to make a wish before blowing candles,  I said loudly I want to be like that Lady on the television,  The lady that wears the red blouse and  Who says about things like war, politics, and in some other places difficult to pronounce.  Father told me I can be like her when I grow up And then I can also learn everything about the places the lady says.  But I didn't know, I will be homeless on my birthday,  To step out of what I told my friends 'my home',  To abandon the tv where the lady appears,  To leave my birthday decorations,  To lose the space in the bed between my father and mother.  We were made to move out to nowhere,  There were thousands like us,  I don't understand why we are made to leave our place,  Father says it is because they see us as different,  It is because they don't see us as friends but foes,  Just like the girl in red bun sees me at

  I see people,  People intoxicated by the pictures and paintings of Ophelia's  Flowery death.  Her death image gives them aesthetic pleasure,  As controlled women always gave them.  Her hairs afloat, start to sleep on to the water,  Flowers shrouding her body,  Eyes open to a world of her own,  Singing songs of despair. But little did she realize the danger,  The danger of clinging on to a hopeless end,  Like the bough that broke beneath her.  She was beneath the procrastinated love,  That demanded her to leave for a nunnery,  Where she could have grown out of love,  Leaving a dull yet moving life in her,  Under the orders of others.  Little did she understand the fleeting  Feelings inside men,  The constant tribulations of mind,  That demand their essence and  Drink off the sanity.  She mistook the words and its soul,  She made her life revolve around one improper love,  She didn't realize the wonders in life beyond romantic love,  Or no one helped her.  Deaths made her mourn

  Your face has started to fade away It's now at some place that makes me blind,  I don't understand how this happens,  Were you so insignificant to me?  Or have you changed a lot from the past?  But I remember every single thing you said,  Every punctuation and apostrophe Every road and bus we took.  I wonder why your face is fading,  When I remember how we cycled through the fields in the summer,  How you read me Neruda,  battling with the breeze that turned the pages constantly.  How can your face fade away, When I remember the sensuality I felt every time your hands rubbed against my skin,  The times we spent under fluorescent lights of your van.  Your face has started to fade away,  Even when I don't forget how time  Flew when we spent weeks Exploring the strange roads in the Countryside.  How is this possible?  When I have a clear picture of  your little ecstasies  surrounding the odd things,  The way you arranged home with  white curtains and yellow flowers,  The tri