Skip to main content

What Do You See In Me?

I have been put through the shredder and my entrails have stained many a heart before. I have been ground fine in time and now get tossed in beautiful looking hourglasses. I have been beaten hollow as a drum, and I am highly strung. The shrillness of my voice; you would not have heard before.

I have been battered by the blue waves and have surrendered my pride years ago; I have no rocky edges no wedges and no space for your little hands to hold on to. I sustain no life anymore. Wonder what you see in me!


Comments

  1. Rajesh,
    Thanks for your comments about President Obama. I have come to your BLOG... delighted with your good spirit, keen mind, and fine writing. I am glad to find your poems... and to find you. Having lived for several years in Southeast Asia, and having gone back to Asia as often as I can manage it, I feel already as if we have been friends for many years. I will check back regularly.
    Jerral

    ReplyDelete
  2. I see beauty of the survivor. Be well WH

    ReplyDelete
  3. I think this is another wonderful piece of writing. I particularly liked...

    "I have been beaten hollow as a drum".

    Thank you very much for your visits to my blog, they are much appreciated.

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Hush

You don't have to tell me. I just know. Its that little sniffle that comes through The unexplained pauses The slow responses I know when you call Just because you needed to cry.

That Fluttering of Broken Wings

If you were to cross the road and hurt your toe, I know that I will never know. As we go on to take different roads and move on across different shores, there is something that happens to our relationships. Something that estranges, disconnects, disintegrates. I know that you still think of me. I know this because I find myself thinking about you. And thoughts rarely get seeded on their own. It comes from you to I and from I to you until one of us is alive. Old relationships rarely die. Like broken winged moths, they hang around dark alleys of forgotten memory lanes. Ever so often, I can hear one of them flutter its wings. Not too close but never too far.

Long Winter Chill

If I could do a Neruda, You would have smelt of summer roses And Autumn pine. There would have been sheer love Of the kind that causes our hearts to ache And loneliness bordering the divine. You would have had so many secrets Welling up as in a girly giggle And so few friends who would hear them all. I am no Neruda I can't paint you a Summer breeze Amidst this long winter chill.