Clocks

NaPoWriMo 2017.

2/04/2017 day two.

“Clocks”

There’s something about clocks
tick-tock-ing,
steadily, as if nothing could ever
be out of sync.

There’s something about the way
the digits align themselves,
spaced so equally, as if nothing could
ever be out of place.

There’s something about the way
the wheels churning in the distance,
soothingly, musical even.

There’s a lot about how they align
in the illusion that is time,
as everything seems to fall into place,
and it all just seems so right,
rhythmic tick-tock-ing
calming the tides.

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If you ever happen to glance at me,
and feel a beat of your heart missed,
and skipped repeatedly,
don’t expect it to be love.
And if you still argue to the contrary
look into my eyes and tell me
my insecurities are loud,
and my (in)confidence louder still.
Try to tell me that
you love the way I laugh, loud and erupting,
deep cracking, and, so…
what do they call it? Unladylike, yes.
Tell me you like the way I bun up my
messy hair, and smile at you from across the room.
Or maybe the way I text you at night to say goodnight,
just to know that you’re there.
Or that my blithe disregard to the canon doesn’t work you up.
accepting is so tough, and maybe I don’t
like the way I’m stared at when I double-up,
or when I sometimes don’t put enough thought in my clothes.
For love is kind, and forgiving, and accepting.
If I cannot, would not,
embrace myself, why would you endure?

appreciation

I tried to change myself
for you, hoping that one day you might
notice me and accept me into your clan. I tried so hard
to fit in your group of judgemental cronies
that I forgot how you had judged me the
first time I had walked up to you.

I  forgot to keep a part of myself hidden, one
that had been embedded itself into my soul was
exchanged for a part of yourself.

So starry eyed I was by you that I overrode those
little emotions that made bile rise up
in my throat when you asked me for money only
because my parents were rich and you were
too lazy to get them from your own purse.

I tried to look for validation in your eyes,
appreciation for my efforts,
I ignored the fact that you used me
and made fun of me when I turned around.

For when I did, you had these little snickers
that you made sure I’d hear.
But hey! Look, your validation
was so appealing and so mesmerizing to me
that I chose to forget what you’d done and made me do,
only to be accepted and appreciated and validated.

Pukaar

I see you taking off your belt,
removing it from the shackles of your trousers
wearing a scary look on your face,
ready to lash at me with it.
Only because my words stung you, right?

But aren’t there too many of us?
So many, that even if your belts are torn and ripped,
we’ll stay, bleeding, but words unwavering.

You then take away my paper,
Make me work longer, harder.
Pointing empty drafts and bills at my head,
forcing me to survive on water,
stirring empty pots and drinking from empty pitchers.

You took away my land,
you have almost taken away my religion too.
You want me to follow you, don’t you?

When your bullets were piercing through the
bodies of my mates, children, wives,
where was your religion?
Was it not there, looming in the depths and shadows
of your dark, merciless eyes?

How could you not feel, the slightest bit of apprehension
when you so casually made slits into our uniformity;
dividing us, forming castes, breaking unity?

And while we are at it, let’s not forget
the inter-caste wars, love, marriages,
killings, when the father saw to it that
his daughter was burnt to death, along with her lover?

You also took away opportunities,
chances from my offspring, making them
redundant, unable to go out into the world,
stealing their pages, pens, ink.
What would they know of the world,
when they didn’t know how to read and write?

Your corrupted mind,
pulling money out of my pockets,
not admitting my child in your schools
and colleges without an opaque donation,
a transparent bribery.

I’m home, waiting for your call,
the acceptance letter in your hands,
lies unhanded to me,
your lame excuses, poor reasoning,
I’m fed up of it all.

And then you look into my eyes,
emotional against emotionless.
Which one’s are yours, which are mine?
After all you have done,
How do you expect sentiment to be in mine?