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

Naked

Go on

Show it all to them

Your bare skin

Unclothed

Unshielded

Exposed

Vulnerable

Naked

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

Imprison

Hide

Lie.

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.

Worship

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

Pirith

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

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
substance?

The (Un)Lucky One

He always had the visible signs of
Grief
He doubled in pain
His sweat-drenched body
Limp
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
Silent
And even though paper
Beats rock
Silence doesn't beat
Noise
  Whimpers, shouts
  Sounds of pain
But silence is all I had
And words
  Words that filled
  Pages
  Words that no one
  Read
  Words that cried out for
  Help.

කාලය

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?

Mind.

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

Sub-atom

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

Magnets

Like you and I

Then you and her

Him and I

You and I (again)

You and (a different) her

Me.

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.

Untitled

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

Read

See!

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

Blank

Or type ‘untitled’?

If I go with the latter, wouldn’t the poem have a title?

Naming it ‘untitled’ is giving it a title

Right?

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

Right?

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

Untitled.

Forgetfulness

I want to remember her
    forever
    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


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

Wonderful

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?

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.

Imagine this...

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

Dancers

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.

 

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

Broken

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

It's complicated.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"You know you can tell me anything..."

"Yes."

"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
too-complicated-to-talk-about?


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.