Sword in pen

At the time of my childhood Amidst the street plays and fairs I would clap my hands and shout At the puppets dancing To amuse the crowd. But as I grew older I no longer felt like clapping At the sight to puppets dancing. I wanted to cut all those strings, That chained them against free will And arm wrestle with those hands That were entangled in those strings. The coins that were tossed At the puppets were like holes That were visible on the girl's skirt whose hands were entangled in the strings. And I didn't know how to hate that show. There were plastic smiles on those puppets which I knew were Hurting them for long. I took a brush and painted tears On the cheeks that were bleak . Their smile resembled the photographs That are on the walls of my room. There are crevices on those frames Just like the cheeks of that puppet. As I grew older I got fewer photographs clicked And switched to  windchimes Made of strings. Chanchal Bagla

The tyranny is that I am what I used to hate The jocularity is that I hate what I used to be The reality is that I am in a self loathing loop The tragedy is that I cannot find my way out. You come again and again On the same path where I stand You look at me again and again With the same eyes In which in I once drowned. And like always You leave again And like always I wait on that same path Waiting for you to come again and again. And I don't know when this will end And somewhere I don't want this to end.

One day I will get over it One day I will not cry myself to sleep One day I will wake up smiling One day I will love myself One day Those things won't matter Everyday I wish for that day Everyday I struggle to make it true Everyday I fail myself, trying Today I know, I won't stop Today I will not cry Today I will not smile Today I will just accept The things I have done And What I have become. -Chanchal Bagla

I stand at my balcony Gazing at the street The pebbles here and there Appear like pock marks on sheet I chuckle when I catch A kid writing his name Through the dust On my uncle's car. My quidnunc neighbour eyes at him And the kid slips like sand Between fingers Out of my street. I see children running after each other Not to win nor to defeat But just to run And I wish, I could be like one. I remember some of the greatest fairytales in their plot Have balconies a as poignant spot Be it the Rupanzel craving for the world Stranded in the tower cum cage Or the Juliet waiting for someone Singing and reminiscing. I have got no fantasing story For my balcony walls to cherish. As in real life stories People jump off their balconies In search of a better world. The wind flushes through my face Making my hair strands Dance in a non-rhythmic pace I try to tuck them behind my ears Just like many of my dreams Which are now turning blurry, Every single day Due ...

It's becoming difficult now. Every moment I feel like running away. I don't want to live like this. I don't like my home. I don't want to call it home. This isn't going right. I want to be free. I feel like locked up. I don't have a opinion of my own nor do I have choices of my own. This has to end. Or someday I will end myself. I feel like dying. Not physically. But mentally. There are clouds surrounding me. The clouds that want me to come to sky. To be free. To have no limits. No boundations. Just me and my dreams. I want to go woth them. I wish I had the courage to do so. But that is not possible. With all the responsibilities that are on my shoulders and all the people who look forward on me. I cannot hurt them. Even if in return I have to hurt myself every single day. I am afraid of my own shadow. It tells me how dark my world is. I want to be left alone. But then, I suffer pangs of loneliness every single moment. This has to end. I can't live like this...

Every cloud has a silver lining I got it as scars That are etched on my soul. There are worms on my scars who are busy dining On every emotion I feel. My scars become a wound that bleeds. My blood is the rain from the cloud That no longer has a silver lining. I'm the picturesque of the hill that has been ravaged by the storms There is cold water everywhere But someone atop the hill Died of thirst 'cause All he could see was - worms who were swimming everywhere. -Chanchal Bagla