It didn’t rhyme

I wrote a poem once and it didn’t rhyme

I thought I didn’t know how to write

It was only later that I realized what I had written

It was not enveloped in those phony words

It did not show the struggle of changing lines to match

What I had written… was raw

And I did this because what happened to me was raw

Because the only words which rhymed with my fear were Near and Dear

Like my predator

There was no rhythm in his hands when he groped me

There was only hurry

For me fury rhymed with hurry.

Or so I thought because that was the closest emotion for which I could find a word for

He knew my fears because he was near… and dear

It pained me at places I never knew could hurt so bad.

Though as a consolation he used to brush my hair in the end

I always cried when I wanted something bad.. be it a toy or a chocolate..

But for the first time I cried because I didn’t want.. what you were giving me.. DAD

See it rhymed there.. Bad and Dad.. Like my fear.. Near and Dear..

 

When I read that poem again

I had flashbacks of that pain.

At that time I hated myself because I did not know what to say

And now when I found the courage to write

I hated myself because I didn’t know that perfect line.

I hated myself because I didn’t know how to make my struggle RHYME…

 

 

PS: Image credit google : thequint.com

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Alan Kurdi

Remember remember 2nd of September

The refugee crisis and war…

I know of no reason

Why the refugee crisis

Should ever be forgot!!

Uncle and his companions

Did the scheme contrive,

To blow up the Middle Earth

All up alive.

Fields of oil, laid below,

To rationale old civilization’s overthrow.

But, by hell’s guidance, them they formed,

With black flags, decapitating souls!!

They raped their own

For Allah’s sake!!

If you won’t give me oil,

I’ll take from you,

It’s better for me,

And I will make it worse for you.

War, war, for pride’s sake,

A Barrel of Bombs to choke them,

Mediterranean Sea to drown,

And reigning fire from air to burn them.

Holloa, boys! Holloa, boys! Make the bells ring! (World Economies)

Holloa, boys! Holloa, boys! Death save us from this KING!

Hip, hip, hooor-r-ray!

 

PS: Alan Kurdi drowned a year ago in Mediterranean Sea and his death spoke to the world in a manner in which cries of million couldn’t.

Kaanch ke botal

Kyun karni hai ashiqui insaan se…

Bewafai ke chaddar mein lipat ke vo aata hai…

Tere mere usoolon pe befizul ke sawaal pooch jaata hai…

Ishq karna hai to use nashe se karo…

Jo khuch laal sa kaanch ke botal mein aata hai…

Aur zindagi ke saare gumon ke zawaab de jaata hai…

 

Insaan to us deemakh ke tarha hota hai…

Jo apna ghar mitti mein banake

Saamne ka sheesham kha jaati hai…

Nasha to vo rhenuma hai…

Jo gum aur khushi mein saath deta hai…

Zara gaur se dekho… vo insaan ka nai khuda ka bhi saath deta hai….

 

Apne tute dil ko leke hum darbadar bhatakte hain…

Koi armaano se khelta raha to koi jism se..

Jo jodne ke koshish ke mein hai… hum uska he dil tod ke aage nikalte hain…

Do pyaalon mein khuch nai hota 4 botalon mein khuch smajh aata hai…

Insaan to apni khwaishon mein simat ke rhe gaya hai.. yeah samajh aata hai…

Bas OM Darbadar hai.. yeha samajh aata hai…

 

Kyun karni hai ashiqui insaan se…

Bewafai ke chaddar mein lipat ke vo aata hai…

Ishq karna hai to use nashe se karo…

Jo khuch laal sa kaanch ke botal mein aata hai…