There was a girl once !

There was a girl once.
Who sang her songs to sleep.
She was so tiny then.
She needed someone to sing her to sleep then.
Her mother might be busy.
She knows that,
When she was put in the cradle
With no one to sing.
So, she sang for herself.
So that she can sleep.

They hear her sing.
They are sad when they hear her sing.
Then they come to sing.
By then she would have
Successfully slept.
They say then
"She is a survivor."
Did they know her then?
Do they know her now?
May be not.

I ask only once !

Yes. I ask only once.
To do something.
Anything.
Some do and some don't.
And some won't.
As a matter of act,
I care for who do hear.
I don't mind caring the others.
I am a human for heavens sake.
I am too timid to ask again.
For a word is so precious.
I save it for a better tomorrow.
So, I ask only once.
Those who care are my dears.

My dreams are weird too

My dreams are weird too.
I don't understand them.
They are snippets of conscience.
The back logs of my convictions.
The true friends who knows my likings (?)
The heat they produce is too much.
Unbelievably red hot.

People Ignore

Yea. People ignore.
They ignore the sensible.
When they like
They can recognize.
But they simply ignore.
Don't bother to give a shoulder pat.

It is not about appreciation.
It is about sensitivity.
It is about being receptive
To the minuscule of details.
Isn't there a beauty in minuscule's ?

Well, I like the minuscule.
I see them.
I feel them.
They are the dull beauties of life.
Yea. No big deal.
They are still cool.

I can't write for the heck

I can't write for the heck of it.
I can't write for being something.
I can't write to derive something.
I can't write for I am not a writer.
I can't write for I am not a poet.

Then why am I writing.

I am writing because I want to express
Those feelings that I don't want to lecture on.
I want to write because I feel a thrust.
A thrust that I cannot bear.

Each time I am pregnant with a new thought,
I deliver it with much pain.
But each pain teaches me something.
Good or bad.
They are my pains and gains.

That is why I write.
But not for the heck of it.
I love pain as much I like pleasure.
My poems are my babies.
And they are the buds that I pick
In my journey.
And they will remain with me through out my journey.

I want to draw a picture

I want to draw a picture.
Infact, I want to draw many.
This one is that of my place.
My lost place in my village.

The place is so clear in my mind.
The trees.
The white sand.
I heard that they are selling sand now.
For it has lot of silica.
And silica brings them money.

They cut the matured mango tree first.
The dream road was the reason.
Then they took the land
To draw a line between the spaces.
The egos.
It was my space.

Where I grew my sand castle.
Where I ran around.
Now I am told that it is someone else's land.
Oops, I never knew that before.

Then they cut many many trees.
To build houses.
And now, there is no space.
My childhood place is nowhere.

It got buried under the rubble
There somewhere.
They buried me.
And my innocent memories.
It is so irrecoverable now.
So, I want to draw.
Draw the picture of the picture
That I photographed with my eyes.
Long long ago.