She is bitter,
Like the after taste
Of all that was ever too sweet.
Controlled insider her,
Having been simmering there for long
Begin to reflect in her being.
Acerbic and sharp,
She is always on her guard
From those wanting
To get beneath her skin.
That turns bitter
Having been housed in a tavern for long,
She too has turned bitter.
Her true identity
And afraid to recognize it,
She hides beneath
Layers of hateful intensify.
Her body –
Demeaned and objectified,
Has been draped in somber covers,
With the aim of humiliation.
She is unaware
Of her beauty,
Having always been taught
To be modest and contain herself.
Is reduced to a mere corpse,
Lifeless, without desire.
Years of spite
Like a jar filled to the brim.
She had resisted
Giving back to attempts of control,
The recurring nature of restraint
She conceded to submission.
Fed to her,
Giving rise to a poison –
A bitter venom
Like one spewed by a vile snake.
She turns bitter –
The effects of the toxin
As well as controlling restrictions.
She is bitter,
We are soothed by the support of the like minded;
Their presence in our inner circles feels protecting.
Our echo chamber is filled with similar voices, thoughts and opinions.
And silences are maintained for the same reasons.
Our collective echoes have the same meaning;
They emphasize our beliefs and convictions.
We feel stronger together-
Our echoes can create a huge din.
But alone, we fear to face our demons-
Many of our fears are born of loneliness,
And hence we prefer to stride and live in a pack.
We fear the lone wolf within,
And hence survive with the aid of our pack.
Our pack represents the same fears,
The same vulnerabilities that we are afraid to face.
We find solace in the presence of likenesses,
When alone, we view our thoughts as personal crevices.
The horse is always dressed with its blinkers.
It adores it and finds it comforting.
The blinker is it’s aid,
Helping it selectively see and take in information.
Without its blinkers,
The horse feels uneasy.
No longer is there a sense of self restraint or control.
After all, freedom is a double edged sword.
The blinker represents the sieve placed by its master,
Distilling its thoughts and controlling it’s movements.
The blinker turns into its staple,
For the horse is trained with it from when it was a foal.
The blinker is a reassurance of the presence of the master,
Forever steadfastly behind it.
Hence its absence is disturbing.
The blinker has grown to be a part of it,
A vital organ that prevents from thinking or seeing.
The blinker prevents it from looking beyond,
Constantly restraining the horse’s sight.
Having been taught to think,
The horse fears the freedom of thought.
It ,hence, longs for the comforting control of its blinkers,
Restricting its thought and sight.
The uncontrolled world is unexplored and scary,
And the horse believes it’s unprepared to take on its sole journey.
Being used to the overlord’s omnipresence,
The journey is completed with the blinkers still on for company.
Beyond physical boundaries,
The hometown is an emotion:
An intricate one,
Linked to bittersweet memories.
It is a hub of ways of living,
Teaching the method of life:
The slow paced and mindful one.
It is timeless
Changing for good measure.
The snaking mud paths
Turn to cemented roads;
And the familiar thatched roofs
To whitewashed terraces.
Yet the inhabitants retain
The haven’s free spirit.
The hometown lives
With no strings attached;
It owes nothing to the world, unlike
It’s urban counterpart.
The hometown’s spirit,
Lives beyond –
A sense of warmth,
A belonging in one’s heart.
Tone is not just the quality of sound,
It is an expression,
An expression of our intention,
Revealing our true desires.
It tells enough,
Without giving it completely away,
Tantalising and teasing,
It leaves us wanting for more.
It is subconsciously alive,
Sometimes in the forefront,
Answering us better,
Than the content it is used to convey.
Though the words may deceive us,
The tone remains true,
Expressing emotions with restraint,
Leaving room for our imagination.
Thinking it to be a figment of our imagination,
We do not trust the Tone enough,
Time the greatest teller of all,
However, reveals the ugly truth.
Incidents reveal our inner selves,
Ones hidden beneath myriad layers,
And as each occurrence takes place,
A new soulful hue comes to surface.
As and when new learnings are showcased,
A new mask is intuitively worn,
To juggle with the new truths unearthed ,
And to deal with the new dimensions emerged .
Each mask -a result of experience ,
Is used to tackle healing emotions,
The mask – a cast upon the wound,
To protect the raw feelings new found.
The mask is a means to self deception,
To misdirect oneself about the proofs exposed,
The truth of light within however, almighty,
Brings about the inner gospel brightly.
Memory can be a fickle thing,
Remembering details and fine prints on some occasions,
Whilst also being easy prey to intoxicants,
It reminds us of our deepest regrets,
As well as fails us under subjective influence.
It is a medium for our euphoria,
But also a mirror of our grave mistakes,
And hence we look for these intense substances,
To erase our mind’s bitter incidences.
We wallow in the power of these drugs,
To provide ourselves with strength and sympathy,
The sporadic bliss provided,
Supposedly helps us reach the end of our obstacles.
The mind being foolish bait,
Falls prey to the lair of inebriant,
We turn to it as a method of reconciliation,
Forgetting that it’s creates a lifelong problem.