The Adamantine Gene

It begins

When you cling to a toy,

Never letting go,

As a tot,

When you dint age enough to articulate,

And whine about anything that’s not your way,

When you hang your hand tightly at your mom’s,

Pulling her back to a mall,

When you coil up at the doorway,

Not entering the house after a rebuke,

When you gallivant around with friends,

And reach home late, ignoring the inquiring dad,

When you talk back at him,

And notify that you are an adult…

All along the gene grew with you,

For you,

By you..

And then when you finally mature,

Ready for a less obdurate you,

The gene does not comply,

Turns autonomous

The adamance steals within,

And now there is another you..

When you stop clinging to something,

Letting go,

There is one that does nt,

When you cease the scream,

There is one still within,

When you restrain your emotions,

There is one that pushes it on,

When you feign an unruffled state,

There is one that coils inside,

And when you forget all that you want to,

There is one that allies with memories..

It will be there, all along,

Sovereign by itself yes,

Yet,

By you,

For you..

When do things happen..

They say things happen
When you least expect it,
So how do you do that?
Consciously?
Yet you try,
To not expect, willfully,
And you discover the difference,
Between expecting
And just thinking..


So now you are not expecting,
Consciously,
Just thinking,
But The problem with thinking constantly,
Is the chance of forgetting now and then..
And you discover the difference
Between thinking about something,
And just keeping it in memory,..

So you are not thinking now,
Consciously..
Just keeping in memory,
But the problem with keeping in memory
Is the obvious,
And thus, in one of those dementing paroxysms,
You lose it..

And now that something finally happens..
Perfect! cos you least expected..

Also,
Now you least wanted….

So,
Should I rewrite the first line..?

Stilled..

There are things I find difficult,

To understand,

And I pour my thoughts into them,

Throw some analysis,

Muse, manipulate,

The comprehension reached or not,

I had something to do..

There are things

I understand completely,

The things I find difficult,

To accept,

There is no room for thoughts

No scope for analysis,

And I have nothing to do,

Am stilled..

And its these things,

That create pauses,

While at work,

That push my sleep away for a few minutes,

When I retire,

That take over from those halted thoughts,

During a traffic signal,

That fill those long breaths,

When I heave a sigh..

That engage me,

When am not occupied..

That sync with all the inert moments in life,

Blend with their stillness,

And call out to me,

To say,

They can find their way..

Strange

Its strange,

When we wish,

It had happened,

Something that slipped,

Even before it could ensue,

Something that you could not hold on to,

Even at the beginning,

Something that could not hold on to you,

Even in the hardest moments of yearning,

Something that made you happy once,

But could not sustain even a short while,

Something that brought the best out of you,

And still caused you to let it slip..

Strange,

That such lovely somethings

Could not last,

Stranger,

The very point they drive across,

By not lasting,

We overlook..

Yet shocks..

I knew that it will shoot up,
That its buried under the lid,
That it was there always,
And that when I open,
Will come pouncing..

The knowledge was but of no avail,
In thwarting the shock,
Nor that reflex frisson,
When I finally did open
A jack-in-the-box

And..
A human core..

Untitled

A hundred emotions inside,

Brought out by a single cascade,

And I twirl inside out,

Each time I am drenched,

From outside within,

Gashed open layer by layer, the façade.

A thousand complexities interior,

Laid bare and simple,

The real me,

Sans the outer grime,

The real rains indoors,

And the real dimple.

A million people, it pours on,

Yet an ownage i apprehend,

They know me and viceversa,

Pour gentle sometimes,

And sometimes otherwise,

Like a mirror, me they second..

Sodden to a shiver,

As I walked today,

The truth serum worked again,

Poured hard,

Harder than ever,

And I headed home ways..

Habit Is...

Habit is..

I miss my bus,
Am late for work,
The boss is all curse
A sleepy meeting,
A delicious tea,
A beautiful downpour,
Wow, I got home drenched!
I call you up,
Sum up all these,
The day is complete..

Habit is..

Your morning messages,
Lunch time enquiries,
Evening calls,
Good night poems..
Week end outings..
Your summaries..
Your sharing..

Habit is..

When a morning message is skipped,
Heart beat does too..
And then sometimes none at all till evening..
I call and thrash and complain,
Cos not a single time of day could pass,
With you not being a part of..

Habit is..

The skips become more frequent..
The complaints less..
I can manage a part of the day single..
After all you’re busy
I convince myself

Habit is..

A day now is skipped..
And no summaries..
No enquires a full day!
I wait some days till you call,
I call to thrash some days..
Yet some days I carry on just fine..

Habit is..

A few days together it is now..
And I manage them fine, with out you..

Habit is..

Weeks of course..
Fuming, cribbing, complaining, waiting,
I go through it.
I can sense the lack o something in you,
Interest? Love? Commitment?

Habit is..

And today I tackle months..
What seemed impossible for a few hours,
Now has extended itself..
Not with ease, Not without aches,
But with much less intensity..
I know years ought to pass too..
N I know I’ll make it fine..

A time will come when you are not part of life..
And I know I can take that too..

So habit is
This..

But..

Love is?

For the Sketch

With a stroke

Begins a conquer,

Of a serene vast whiteness,

By a tiny cone of grey

Driven by another colossal grey and white

Persevered by petite organs of dexterity..

Graphite tipped areas

Printing the mind on chart,

The unscathed zones,

Accentuating the form,

An art comes into being,

Stilled into the art ,

Frozen with time,

Oblivious to the mortal world,

A portrait joins the millions of lives..

And when I look at it,

A thousand fondles of the chart,

Beginning from all sides,

All directed to the nodal point,

Forming what they wish, on their way,

And end at the fulcrum of the immortal,

That which articulates sundry stories,

And that which I look when I look at it,

The eyes…

And it pulls that chord inside…