Dear Dad,

“Not every Queen was a princess that has been.”

Dear Dad,

Other girls say, “I would prefer a man like my father”,
I sit here and wonder, whether I’d want the same.

Other girls say, “My father is my strength and my support”,
I sit mum, while I retrospect the times I needed you the most.

Other girls say, “My father says I’m his princess, forever and always”,
didn’t I deserve to be a princess daddy?, didn’t I deserve your love?

“Not every queen was a princess that has been”, says the boy I loved,
I could not be more pleased to tell you that he is nothing like you.

He said, “I’ll hold your hand, I’ll stand by you in sickness and health”,
I would like to believe him, but alas!, I recollect you promising the same.

As I sit here, holding my pen, writing everything I could never tell you,
left my life, you certainly did, but please erase your memories I interleave.

Remorse.

– A daughter that once was.

Wondering & Vanishing

“Wondering Memories, Vanishing Memories. Where do they summer?”

“Ma, I want to stay home today”, She had said,

Her mother was both surprised and rejoiced.

“Why would you rather stay home?”, questioned her conscience,

The daughter, was never so hesitant in her silence.

“My dear daughter, reply at once, who let my princess down?”

Dripping tears filled her eyes, as she adjusted her crown.

Her mother never raised her to be a coward,

She regained her smile, as her mother hovered.

“I promised I would take my mother for dinner”,

“Oh, did you. Why?, I don’t seem to remember”.

“Happy Birthday mother”, the daughter had finally wished,

Just as Alzheimer’s wondered, where her memory vanished.

Dear Men,

“An excerpt from a never ending letter to Men, from Women”

Dear Men,

No, not you, and yes, you right there,
Here I refer to the ones who do care.

Not to the Father who believed I deserved no explanation,
But to the Grandfather who believed in my education.

Not to the Uncle who has subscribed me in matrimonial,
But to the Professor who has believed in my ordeal.

Not to the Brother who would rather I stay at home,
But to the Best friend who published my poem.

Not to the guy who claimed I was worth nailing,
But to the boy who thought I was worth saving.

Not all of you are worth appreciating,
But to some of you who are, there is no debating.

Grow in numbers, we need you, now more than ever,
All we are asking for is support for our endeavor.

Thankyou

Yours Equally,
Women.

The Anchor

“For how long do we wander? Until we’ve found home? Do we know what leads us home?”

 

As I sit under a lonely roof, on a usually empty couch,

I wander on my musings and my distorted ability to vouch.

Conquered a world of dreams, yet not me, within,

travelled half the globe, when the reality weighed in.

 I was left to fly, left to soar my wings very high,

until I turned around to find, none to say goodbye.

Massive ships drifting o’er the seas, yet secured at harbor,

petty me, dwelling to no purpose, but none found to anchor.

Just like hope needs a deserving soul for shelter,

all I ask for is a person who stops me for better.

 

 

 

 

Serendipity?

“Serendipity simply stands for a happy accident. Serendipity is the need of the hour. Serendipity is what the human race needs.”

Consumed in a world, detached from substantiality,

I owe it to my devoted generosity towards the fantasy.

Such was my maneuver when I went about prevailing,

almost succeeding was my plot, only until the next stop.

The shut of the door, the wave of her saree, alas, a baby,

pink little shoes, tiny little bow, and a nudge from her mum.

That was all it took for her to slide her way across to me,

instinctive riddance of weapons of the 21st Century, I did.

Took myself by surprise, I am still certainly very much alive.

Begins the story, where she asks me for a story, How could I not?

 A tilt of her head to the left, a momentary dimple, much misprized.

Harry Potter meets Snow White, Rapunzel wins the Hunger Games,

such were my stories, all very misconstrued, yet adored, I believe.

Right when Cinderella gets to wear her leather jacket, I hear her mum say,

“She loved her sister very much”, but, unnoticed were the glistening tears.

As little Aditi waved goodbye to my dismal, I was left to wonder the tense,

the tense, the tone and the relief in her statement, as well a wave of wonder.

Consumed in a world detached from substantiality I still closely bore,

but now I owe it to my devoted generosity towards fantasy and more.

The Date

” Take time out for yourself. Take yourself out. Nobody else can treat you better”

It had been a long while since she stepped out,

Staying up all night, restless, not any doubt.

Barely hungry and starving all day, such incongruity her,

So I decided to take her out, and relieve all that blur.

Originally hesitant, absently willing, she did agree,

though enough of having people false guarantee.

A trip to the ice-cream store, a picture to reminisce,

that’s all she needed, when life wasn’t amiss.

Her favourite was a scoop of strawberry and cream,

for the twinkle in her eyes reappeared, just like a dream.

After all, nobody who would no more, I am her.

All Her Mess

“Guarded and secluded she confined to her own world, that’s when he came along and put order to all her beautiful chaos.”

She looks at others, laughing and genuine,

herself a mess, surrounding herself in ruin.

Betrayed and left, a dear father she earlier had.

Never recovered or even tried, all her part bad.

She cries like a kid, usually only during 3 am at midnight,

breaks down amidst a crowd now, despite a strong fight.

Dear ones don’t understand her rift with a proper smile,

unaware that she hasn’t been happy in a long, long while.

He said,” I don’t like girls who cry”, just like her father,

she wondered too hard, why should he even bother?

He loved under her gray skies, he always made her try,

try and smile, try and laugh, try and she could also be high.

She would snap and he’d let, she would yap and he’d let.

She would shut herself up, but that he would never bet.

She found somebody who loved her, and all her mess.

she wasn’t ever letting him go, he’s all she does possess.

The Sorrow of the Sheep’s Sorrel

” The ignorance in my garden”

Plucked from the garden, tagged as unwanted,

spewn on the ground and caused to be daunted.

“What did it do wrong?”, growing if designated a crime,

as a wolf amidst a herd of sheep, anything but sublime.

Out of place, out of shape, out of its clear space,

so the weed weeps for its regard as a disgrace.

The gardener, however unaware of his plight,

expels the Sheep’s Sorrel from his clear sight.

“What a delight!”, a garden filled with roses and kind,

but flawed of a plant which is safe for his heart’s bind.

The Sorrel would find his home elsewhere,

buckled up in a bottle of health and welfare.

 

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