If Destiny Decides That I Be Alone (Poetry)


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rush of emotions //
concern, love, care, anger, frustration //
too small a heart that is mine //
wants a shoulder to rest upon //
wants a hand to pat its back //
but all the emotions have made mine heart too hot //

click for high resolution image


that it is almost burning //
and everyone backed away //
forget hands patting my back //
i hardly hear anyone breathing close to me, distances as they are, grew //
and the one breath i hear is mine; one I hardly see any meaning in //
too harsh it would be, if i gave up //
too painful it is already, to carry on //


i said to myself,


” If destiny decides that I be alone, so be it. “


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Tweet me at @sankarajayanth

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The Woman In White (Painting) – Haiku #36


The Woman In White

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clad in austere white,
rainbow of emotions; she,
woman, endures, hides.

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This post is an entry in Haiku Challenge for April 2012 at Haiku Heights. The prompt being ‘white’.

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Tried finishing the painting by 12 am but Photoshop crashed and i had to start over because i forgot to save! Uuuf!
This might be my last haiku in april(probably maybe not) because exams start from tomorrow,
but will surely keep track of yours @ Haiku Heights.

They Need Tender Hand’s Work – #2


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Previous post : They Need Tender Hand’s Work – #1

blood streaming down the bird’s wing,
her tender plumage completely fraught with the wound,
fear of a complete void pressing hard on the threshold of her consciousness,

to heal her,
she needs tender hand’s work,
tender hands that are bold, not strong, to hold her and give her hope.

They Need Tender Hand's Work

Image Source : images.google.com

I Talk Less. A ridicule, nevertheless…


people think i am a ridicule.
i talk less, i cower behind a plane called good, people think i am a ridicule.
i talk less, i wonder if i might trouble people unknowingly, people think i am a ridicule.
i talk less, i fear i might hurt someone while soothing them, people think i am ridicule.
i talk less, for much of around is bad, people think i am a ridicule.
i talk less, i give others a chance, placing them above myself, people think i am a ridicule.
i talk less, i respect silence, people think i am a ridicule.
i talk less, i show my love and care with silence if there is no other way, people think i am a ridicule.
i talk less, i reason myself if my talk is needed at all, people think i am a ridicule.
people think i am a ridicule.

i think i am a ridicule.
i talk less, i am good but that doesn’t change what is bad around, i think i am a ridicule.
i talk less, i want to get them past troubles, also checking if i myself am a trouble though i know i am damn nowhere near being a trouble and yet i am kept away, i think i am a ridicule.
i talk less, i fear that memories and truth might hurt others while soothing them and they know not this, i think i am a ridicule.
i talk less, for much of around is bad and i cannot bear a second of it around any of the good ones and i am misunderstood, i think i am a ridicule.
i talk less, i give others a chance because i use my heart for deciding who is good and who is not, good ones get another, bad ones don’t. but people think i am partial, jealous and selfish, which i am not. i think i am a ridicule.
i talk less, when the other doesn’t feel like talking to me, thinking what to talk or if in pain, i respect their silence and wait for eternity, but never one sees what i take in to do that, pain. i think i am a ridicule.
i talk less, my love and care in silence remain in silence forever portraying me as just an uncaring fellow. i think i am a ridicule.
i talk less, i respect others privacy, personal life, i think twice before i talk. yet, i am misunderstood. i think i am a ridicule.

i think i am a ridicule.

people think i am a ridicule.
i think i am a ridicule.
a ridicule nevertheless.
i talk less.

Withheld…


restless and helpless,
i wander through thorns and ferns
forest, a quiet place now.


countless acts of solace
i give out,
you felt nay.


thorns hurt me less
than the words buried inside
begging to be let out.


stumbling and wobbling on weakened feet
i wander through thorns and ferns
forest, a mere shelter now.


i pick up a flute
sung from a tree,
i prepare to play.


i whistled
through it until i was out of breathe,
nay sound came out.
maybe it withheld.


i pick up a violin
sung from a tree,
i prepare to play.


i spiel,
from the deepest vaults, a melancholy,
nay sound came out.
maybe it withheld.


i pick up a guitar
sung from a tree,
i prepare to play.


i ruffle the strings
with love and care, a melody,
nay sound came out.
maybe it withheld.


i feel heavy,
at heart,
all that should have rippled out
seems buried inside me.
withheld.


it pains, that it should be withheld.