Out of place

In a storybook village

She sits by the river,

emerald blue water

melancholy song of the birds

its a dull day.

There are only dull days.

In this quaint little town

where nothing happens

she feels like she is living in a daze

in a beautiful but toxic maze.

Caught up in the monotony

unable to escape

unable to move.

It is unsettling, the perfect harmony.

She longs for a different life

one with the cacophony of the traffic

one with the sky-high buildings

one where the city comes alive at night.

She sighs.

In an overcrowded city

She sits in her small cubicle

overlooking the grey skies

She misses the fairytales and their lies

The printer keeps buzzing

as does her phone

The only quiet she finds is in the bathroom

People surround her, breathing in her space

From the second she wakes up,

Life feels like a race.

She longs for a quiet escape.

A hidden nook

Away from the noise and the movement.

Somewhere where life halts for a moment.

She sighs.

Both look at the sky

and wish for a different life.

 

 

© Sneha Pathak

 

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Where do broken dreams go?

Where do broken dreams go?

Do these broken shards pile up somewhere

and make you trip and fall

and bleed

on lonely nights.

Or do they just rot in a corner

of your broken heart

where the stench becomes unbearable

maybe that’s why you find it hard

to just breathe.

Do they become a rope

tied to your feet

always holding you back

always keeping you tied

preventing you from taking risks

moving forward, trying.

Do they become ghosts

that whisper in the night

and keep you up

singing of all your disappointments

as the tears slowly roll down your cheeks.

Do they become the reflection in the mirror

always reminding you

how you fell short

how you couldn’t get them.

Do they become the silence in the room

when people leave

because you despair too much

over these broken dreams.

Do they become your best friend

holding you hand, always in close touch

more so, than any other real person.

Do they become you?

Do they manifest and slowly metamorphose into you

Taking away your identity

Your being, your joy, the sparkle in your eyes.

And all that remains, are these broken dreams that now define you.

 

(c) Sneha Pathak

What do you know of heartbreak?

What do you know of heartbreak?

You don’t get emotionally invested

Your eyes have never been tested

For the number of tears, they can dispel

Your lips, for the number of apologies

They can propel.

You can walk out of love like it meant nothing

You, forget people like children forget old playthings.

You thought the song under the stars was a childish gesture

My love, my care, my loyalty, do you realize they are a treasure?

You dismissed the cards I made you,

Staying up all night

You go to your parties, right after a fight.

You see no emotions in the poetry I write

You don’t fear losing your love,

and waking with a fright.

You say you’re stoic and unemotional

I say you have never known love and devotion.

I say you haven’t felt the pain I feel

When I see her every day

When I wonder why do people like her get their way?

I say you haven’t felt the crushing weight

of someone’s lips as they part with a final kiss.

I say, your heart has no one to long for, no one to miss.

I say that you have not felt the burning flames of love

Of a feeling so intense that it consumes your being.

Neither have you felt the pain of an indifferent lover

Because you are the first to walk out, even before it’s over.

© Sneha Pathak [Rights Reserved]

The girl in the blue polka dot dress

I remember the afternoon I met Her

We were both the only two people in the mueseum, alone, yet together.

In that solitude we felt an unspoken tug to talk to each other,

Our silences spoke volumes as polite smiles pushed the conversation further.

We walked together in unspoken agreement, yet in sync

The paintings fed our minds and our eyes continued to drink.

We spent hours talking, debating and discussing stories of times yore

As we shared hisotrical facts and nothing more.

We shared a coffee, and spoke of Van Gogh,

The way her eyes lit up, made me forget where I was, and where I was supposed to go.

We shared stories of art, philosophy and culture

Her face I have forgotten, for her mind is what had me captured.

When I bid her goodbye at the museum door,

We had spoken for five hours yet, I wanted more.

I watched her get swallowed by the crowd,

But I knew she wasn’t like them, her voice may be soft, but her words were loud.

The girl in the blue polka dot dress,

She did not tell me her name, neither did I press.

We may never meet each other again,

But I shall remember this afternoon, where I entered the museum merely to avoid the rain.

The beautiful encounter with the girl mysterious

Left my mind feeling fulfilled but my heart was left curious.

(C) Sneha P

An old soul

Loneliness be their dole,

For they have an old soul.

Always the odd one out in a gathering,

The shy one, seen in the corner doodling.

Bags under eyes,

For they’ve cried all night.

They blame it on the writer’s block

To hid their insomnia behind locks.

The darkness of their pasts and their mind,

They use their poetry to leave this behind.

Yet to bleed on paper and to bleed true

They need to dig into their wounds anew.

They hurt themselves by tapping their hidden emotions,

But what can they do, for poetry is devotion.

To heal themselves by the magic of verses,

They must bear through an over emotional heart and its curses.

To take a word and create some magic,

They need to use their story tragic.

For they expose themselves and bare their hearts.

They need to let their demons consume them over and over,

Using their stories of an abusive childhood or a jilted lover.

They walk alone even in crowds,

Their hearts feel at peace in silences loud.

Yet, their poetry you can never forget,

For they gave it their soul, these poets.

© Sneha P [ Rights Reserved]

Caught in a web of illusion

What is the difference between you and I?

You smile for pictures, and I, at passerbys.

You swipe through filters finding the perfect one, ah the pain.

I enjoy the dusk sky, sepia like your filters, sitting by the window pane.

You seek picturesque spots for your latest #weekend posts,

Small book cafes, with 4 chairs, chai and poetry is where you will find me the most.

You flaunt your latest dress and await comments and praises,

I share it with my loved ones, and soak in the warmth of joy on their faces.

Your snaps may last for 10 seconds and then poof, they’ll vanish,

My memories will last forever, in my heart they’ll flourish.

Your vacation was spent looking for perfect angles for pictures each,

I spent mine listening to waves on the beach.

Your thoughts are limited by 140 characters

Mine flow like a river, as I spill my heart out on a paper.

Your conversations are restricted to pleasantries,

My midnight chats hover around life, love and poetry.

Your joy is out there for the world to see, but sorrow is confined to your heart

For in your friend list of 1000, to find a real friend, where do you start?

People may shower you with their likes,

Will they show up when you walk through life’s spikes?

You get entangled in this web of trying to live for the netizens,

While I, seek ideas and people that broaden my horizons.

(C) Sneha Pathak

A rainy evening

Slow soft drizzle of first showers,

As the water slides down the towers.

Kids on the street rejoice in rain,

For some, the raindrops help hide the tears of pain.

A couple walks hand in hand, recreating a romantic scene

Someone sits by the window, wondering what could have been.

Some enjoy the fresh smell of petrichor

Some sigh and worry how this will hamper their chores.

Some go for a drive to feel the wind on their face

Some push through crowded platforms, with an umbrella that has seen better days.

Some enjoy the lighting as the skies get dark

Others wonder, next day how to get to work?

Indifferent to them all, the raindrops continue to fall

For nature doesn’t distinguish amongst them all.

(C) Sneha Pathak