Sunday, March 29, 2015

I'm not real

I'm not a real Sri Lankan because
  Cricket doesn't excite or interest me
  I can't eat spicy food
  I avoid public transport as much as possible

I'm not a real reader because
  I haven't read Harry Potter
  Or Lord of the Rings
  Or any of the classics

I don't write real poems becuase
  What I write doesn't rhyme
  I don't know/use any 'big words'
  I don't read or understand many poems

I'm not a real girl becuase
  I don't own any makeup (unless lip balm counts)
  I can't wear heels (not that I want to)
  I don't paint my nails or wear many dresses

Freedom is an illusion

We used to watch the raindrops
Cling to the window
With all the strength they could muster
Asking to be tied down
Rather than surrendering to the
Freedom to fly away with the wind
And you traced their quiet journey
To the bottom, to splash on to puddles gathering beneath
Smiling at the thought of being as free
As free as a raindrop that chooses to stay
As free as a heart that doesn’t let go
As free as a mind that sticks to old-fashioned ways
As free as a dove that flies back in to cage
And as you watched the raindrops
I couldn’t help feeling sad
To break your bubble and tell you
That no one is ever free
So I whisper ‘freedom is an illusion’
And you don’t hear me
Or you pretend not to

Saturday, March 28, 2015


Go on
Show it all to them
Your bare skin
Ignore social cries
Lust in their eyes
Don't follow their eyes
Don't look at the saliva at the corners of their mouths
Show them who you are
Just as they made you
Every curve
Every blemish
Every mark
Every scar
Bare it all to them
Show them what you are made of
Challenge them
With your honesty
Disrobe those clothed liars
Hiders of truth and
Keepers of secret
Let your nudity
Jerk them awake
Make them come
To the conclusion that
Clothes constrict

Thursday, March 26, 2015

5, 7, 5?

Why did you bother
Counting syllables knowing
I like breaking the rules?

5, 7, 5

Glass boxes

We are exhibits
In glass boxes
Oblivious to the
Eyes observing our
Every movement.

Saturday, March 21, 2015


She spits out
Bitter love worship
Chant to bring him
Back to her
Venom soaked prayers
To a venomous god
Offers dead flowers
Blossomed in her dead heart
Thorny offering
Drawing blood
She hits forehead on stone ground
Doesn't cry out as blood soaks skin
Already so sweat-drenched
The bells chime
Haunting music
That shakes heart
Makes mind shudder
At the sound of
Repulsive love-song
She offers soul
For his
To be hers
Until death strikes


Although inscribed on disk
Seeping through audio set
Captures heart, stills moment
And of course
Comforts mind

Friday, March 20, 2015

Friendly substance

isn't it sad then
that the only reason
i steer clear of
alcohol or tobacco
or anything else
is a fear of finding
a friend in the

The (Un)Lucky One

He always had the visible signs of
He doubled in pain
His sweat-drenched body
His eyes shut, he couldn't
Keep them open for long

And when I said he was
The lucky one
They told me to shut up
Not say such cruel things
And continued to nurse him
Fill bottle after bottle
With hot water
Place Eau de Colonged cloth
On forehead
Force syrup and pill
Down throat
Change menus to suit
Patient's needs

And I?
How did I cope with grief?
Not that they ever
Bothered to ask
Or notice

Well, I sealed my thoughts
Like a murder scene
I became more and more
And even though paper
Beats rock
Silence doesn't beat
  Whimpers, shouts
  Sounds of pain
But silence is all I had
And words
  Words that filled
  Words that no one
  Words that cried out for


දිනෙන් දින ගත වෙනවා
මාසයත් වෙනස් වෙනවා
වර්තමානය අතීතය වෙනවා
අනාගතය වර්තමානය වෙනවා

කාලය ගත වුවද
ජීවිතය එකසේ ගතවේ
අද කල දේ හෙටත් කරමි
ඊයේ කල දේමය අදත් කලේ

වෙනසක් සොයා ගියද
එය නිෂ්පල ක්‍රියාවක් විය
කාලය තව ගත වුවද
මම තවම ඉස්සර වගේමය

එහෙත් ඔබ එසේ නොවේ
එදා හිටපු ඔබ අද කොහෙද?
ටික කලකදී වෙනස් වූ තරම ගැන සිතද්දී
අනාගතය ගැන දැනෙන්නේ මහා බයකි

5, 7, 5

Are you willing to
Count syllables to make sure
This is a haiku?


Words buzz through my head
Like lights in a
Machine in a
Sci-Fi film
And that's how I feel
Being observed in a lab
 The mad scientist's
Crazy laugh fills the air
It shakes every atom and
Whatever it is everything
Is composed of
And there is fear in the air
Fear and insanity
A touch of confusion
Everything is moving
Nothing is still
I feel like a child
Who turned around
And around and
Now feels the
Floor melting

Thursday, March 19, 2015


Like you and I
Then you and her
Him and I
You and I (again)
You and (a different) her

Wednesday, March 18, 2015

Will you forgive me
When I change my mind
Leave a message for you
Apologizing for my behavior?

You don't have to
But I would like you to.


I think of you
Even though I’m not sure I should
I don’t know what it would do
But the thoughts don’t do me any good
I want to continue this rhyme
But the words don’t belong to me
Oh wait, I have a better line
‘But the words I write aren’t mine’
Can I cut that bit off and instead write
I want to continue this rhyme
But the words I write aren’t mine?
That is what I like about technology
It has changed the entire methodology
Of how things are done
I can give more examples than one
For instance, I can’t cut through words and still read them
If I’m writing poem on notebook, it just isn’t the same
That’s partly my fault
For having handwriting you can’t
Now I’ve gone off track, as usual
I just can’t seem to stick to one visual
This will trouble me when I think of title
But is one actually vital?
I could leave it untitled
But do I leave space for title
Or type ‘untitled’?
If I go with the latter, wouldn’t the poem have a title?
Naming it ‘untitled’ is giving it a title
And why would this even need a title?
It’s not even a real poem
But then what exactly is a real poem?
I don’t need to be famous or brilliant to
Write poems, right?
It’s like the statement made
By painter
Beneath a painting of a pipe
He scrawled,
‘This is not a pipe’
But unlike the pipe, this is a poem
Or rather, it is a shadow of a poem
Who are we kidding?
It’s not even that
Ramblings and ramblings
I’m letting my thoughts flow
But going back to the story of the pipe
While a painting of a pipe isn’t a pipe
A badly made pipe is still a pipe
So these words, although badly put together
Can be considered to be a [badly written] poem
Not like it matters to other people
But it does matter to me
Sort of
You see, I have a bad case of
Lack of confidence and self-doubt
Despite the once in a blue moon compliment
I can’t help think I’m bad at what I do
Anyway, none of that matters now
I’ve written enough, I think
I won’t bore you any longer
I’ll just end this rant by naming this poem

Tuesday, March 17, 2015


I want to remember her
    and ever
    and ever.

But the truth is
we all
  move on
  forget to remember.

We cry now
miss her deeply
wish she was still here
hope it's all a dream.

But we thought the same things about
other people
  family, friends
  loved ones.

And it's okay to not remember
forgetting is cruel, maybe
but not remembering isn't
it's how things are.

So future me
Here's a small note for you

If you suddenly realize
You've momentarily forgotten
Don't be afraid
Don't feel ashamed
You have nothing to feel
Guilty about
  Doesn't mean you didn't care
  Doesn't mean you didn't love
You did
You do
And never forget that.


I stand in front of you
Trying out a new dress
Ask if I look good in it
You nod and say,
"It looks wonderful"

But why did you think
I wouldn't notice the
Quick look of dread
That shone in your eyes
Twisted your facial expressions
Right before you smiled
And gave your approval of my
Choice of outfit?

Monday, March 16, 2015

Powder blue with a trace of yellow

The clouds are purple
  Like the dress I wore that day
  Ink of the pen you used to sign the receipt
  The flecks of paint you tried to remove from my fingers
  That one wall of your room that's not covered in posters

The sky is powder blue with a trace of yellow
  Like the shirt you insisted on wearing that day
  The shirt that, I later found out, was a gift from her
  The shirt she got you, because that was her favorite color
  The shirt that assured me that I was being replaced

Blind spot

You asked me why I
Friendzoned you.
Didn't I have any shame
To lead you on
Play with your feelings?
You were so hurt
Crushed that I hadn't
Seen you as
'More than a friend.'
And it is,
Quite honestly,
Only then that I noticed you
Realized all your efforts,
How desperately you tried
Clinging on like a leech
Lurking in the background
Always present
Always watching.

Friday, March 13, 2015

My book. You.

There was a book
I kept reading
Over a long period
Of time
I would read a
Page or two
Then bored, or tired
Put it back on the shelf
I would let it gather dust
Forget most of the details
And then, out of the blue
Want to read the book again

And I treated you
Like this book
I forgot
You had feelings
And you were hurt
Each time
I drew you close
Only to push you away


You cannot deny being aware
Of her growing love for you
She makes it all so obvious
And you remain oblivious
Don't you see her looking your way
Waiting for a moment of eye contact?
Don't you read the poems she writes
So clearly written for you?
She's ignoring the world's laughter
As they ridicule her vain attempts
And you keep ignoring her
Avoiding the in-your-face
Attraction turned loved turned obsession

In a room of a thousand
She's dancing for you
But you are looking some other way

And I can't watch anymore
As you two play this ridiculous game.

Thursday, March 12, 2015

Your sunflower

I don't blame her
Or hate her
The least bit

For by the time
She replaced me
In your life
You were already
Walking away
From me

And you may be
Branded 'cheater'
But I forgive you
I understand

She was a vibrant
Sunflower in the summertime
And I was a quiet daisy
On a cold, gloomy day


I can write about love
  Love-stories, love-poems
I can pretend there is a
 Warm hand in mine
 Soft lips on mine
Some one to join lives with me
But who are we kidding?
My life is unshared
My lips are untouched
And I am alone

This realization
It suddenly hits me
Without warning
When I least expect it
And it feels like a
Hammer on my glass heart
A fire next to my frozen thoughts
And I,
 I'm broken
    I realize
       I'm broken with no
       King's men to fix me

Sunday, March 1, 2015

It's complicated.

"What's wrong?"
"You know you can tell me anything..."
"So talk to me."
"It's complicated."
"Okay. Suit yourself."

It's complicated
It always is
But in truth, it isn't
The truth is simple
So simple
Too simple.

Then why do I
dismiss pressing problems as

Because it isn't complicated,
so when I tell a person
whatever is bothering me,
they would go on and on and on about
how they know exactly how I'm feeling.

They've been through it all too.
And they survived.
They swam back to the surface,
filled their bursting lungs
with fresh air.
They lived to tell the tale.

And I don't need to hear that.

When you are sinking, the thought of the world outside doesn't give you enough hope to struggle against the force that has you enveloped.
It is help reaching out to you that pulls you up.
When you talk about how life gets better, I see no reason to push through my problems, despite how trivial they are.
When you tell me how you swam to the shore, all I want to do is push you in to an ocean and hope the currents take you away.

So I go with the easy answer of  'it's complicated.'

It's complicated because you are too self-centered to listen, for just a second.
It's complicated because you would never care enough to know me.
It's complicated because the world is too simple.
Too fragile.

It's complicated.

This is why I write.

Because this page will never tell me,
"Oh! I know what you are going through.
I went through a similar thing last year..."

You could have my words. You really could. But you won't.

You won't because you don't care.

Not about me, anyway.