Storms

A mess here, some dirt there,
I live in this filth,
In this filth, I’m there somewhere,

I’d heard, about this disease,
They call it despair,
Creeps in from crevices,
Settles in the crease

Of my divided, broken attention,
Dirtying my vision,
As if I had the courage to see,
All I saw was my delusion,
And my muddy intention.

And when I heard about the storm
In all its infamy,
About what despairs they bring,
I am unafraid of its tyranny,
Heart’s filled with it anyway,

And so I stood,
Somewhere in the mess I was,
Waiting for it to end,
Convinced there was nothing to mend
Rained like final orders from the cross,

The waters filled me up,
From all the crevices,
Battling the crease,
Of my divided, broken attention,

Clearing my vision,
Floating me away from the mess,
To the zion of my thoughts,
Taking me from what made me less,
Making me rise, and rechristen.

I don’t question, its not my place,
I don’t feel filthy, I see despair fall,
In the water, I see my face,
So that’s what peace feels like,
Storms are necessary after all.

My Sculptor

I’ve reached a milestone,

And I look back on the road,

To check if I’ve atoned,

for my sins, and shed the load.

 

Weak of heart, shaken will,

But i will journey on,

Gathering courage, let me fill,

My stagnant heart some brawn.

 

Miles away from where I am,

There is where I want to be.

My deeds, weighed me down they have,

I look at where they’ve broken me.

 

Their hit wasn’t instant,

They took their time,

Vulnerable as an infant,

Then! They struck me for my crime.

 

I Struggled, wriggled with fervor,

When the finality of it I learnt,

I, meek in the face of karma,

Will bear the brunt!

 

As I tie my will to my chest,

I move on, no matter the bruises,

I don’t pick up the debris,

It isn’t what a broken man loses,

 

But what is left with him,

He will make do with it,

Let fate, this bad karma trim,

Like a Sculptor making a perfect fit.

Fuel

If love was the fuel, If it ran my world..

Oh how I would run, how you’d gallop paces,

The miles we’d churn.

If love was the fuel.. These ideals wouldn’t be blaspheming.

Those, which say,

I shouldn’t feel you burn in my heart,

The way you brand your image in it,

Pour it on me and light me up,

Why only my heart, burn me.

If Love was the fuel.. I wouldn’t worry about dying,

Won’t worry about the forest fire,

That controls me from growing wild,

I will descent into madness.

Let me be… for this is how I am.

Alas! It’s not the the fuel!

It’s not the elixir, which grants me life,

It destroys the who I thought I am,

Shows me who I really am.

It was like a prison that was built,

To lock our true self,

Lets for once, Burn these cells.

Lets not worry about the wreckage,

Lets destroy everything,

And find each other.

 

About

Some emotions and thoughts are so strange, so unrecognizable, there are no words for these alien notions. And if there are, we don’t know about them. in the quest of these unknown realms I attempt to answer my own questions and in doing so, I hope I can answer yours too. Feel free to write to me at pillai.anant23@gmail.com.

I am Anant Mohandas Pillai.