The creation

 Oh, God! she knows me!

date 7/23/2013

She sees me; like she knows me from ages.

She caresses my hair and she feels settled down

I move and she finds a reason to shake along,

Oh, god, I think she knows me.

She knows where the darkness and pain and hate have lived in me.

She knows, my stomach was never upset or, angry;

But my soul sometimes pities on my battles against chocolates of life.

And I wake up; just to find her melancholy.

I smile a fake, crooked, the rusted, the corrupted smile

And she mocks at me.

I cry in loneliness for the sake of loneliness,

And she stares at me,

My only summer cap no longer is umbrella to me,

Because long ago monsoon started,

She knows that and wants me to have a cup, perhaps a kettle of coffee,

And I look at her and think perhaps she is right.

With tired eyes, tired by screening the real life movie,

I look at her,

She is as cold as I am,

Perhaps at the freezing point.

And worn and tired as much as I have been

Her pen has broken and she cares of her handerchief;

Oh, she is as much messed as I am.

Forgetting her true self she has become me;

And I have become her but we don’t know our names

I look at her in the mirror and she looks back.

Oh, god, I think she knows me.

 

 MY PEN

date: 6/25/2013

I walked alone that day,

to the lane, to the fields, to the woods and across the bridges.

In search of that peace,

I lost,

When I lost my pen.

With my pen,

my thoughts took the flight of the heavens,

Any beautiful mind had ever imagined.

And fought with the disasters from enigmas,

that created demons,

with same level of anguish and ecstasy,

as I felt running in my veins.

And it was all with my pen,

I bounced and broke in joys and grief.

The grieves were of every type,

Of minds, of hearts;

And sometimes in between of them,

and they were millions if I had ever counted.

With my pen,

I saw I would keep victory within me,

Not in fancy world or a football match,

But in the world I always found me.

But then, my battle is to myself now.

I can’t share it to my pen.

I lost it while changing my clothes,

From the rug I was wearing to robe others gave me.

I then, am wandering ever since.

Without my pen,

even my feelings betray me.

I won football matches,

I have many friends now.

But then, I lost myself,

To some unknown darkness,

That grows darker and darker with the brighter sunlight

WHOM TO BLAME!                                                              

  Date: 2013-5-24

Can it be fate, or the actions  reflected?

Must be the  wound or the areas affected,

that still sings the tune of melancholy in her room.

oh yes! her piano went dumb a year and a  half ago,

Her dirty pants plead again for the adventures,

but, she lost in the suffocation of  invasion and injustice,

is unable to cry or show any emotions.

She has definitely gone numb.

And she asks everywhere she can,

Is it you nature who has made me weak!!!

The silent sufferer

by Smriti Limbu | 2013-04-03 13:24:55
Up in the dawn with beautiful hopes,

wakes a man wrapped in rugs.
His fields are thirsty again,
 But he can’t decide, if its he or his kids,
who need the hugs.
When the sun will smile at him,
he must smile back.
Hungry stomach is not a news,
poverty here piles in logs.

                                                                                                            

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2 thoughts on “The creation

  1. some great words smiriti
    it reflects some deep feeling and the dynamic side of your career.
    Change is possible. Go ahead 🙂

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