The Nothing Song

I'm empty and I don't feel it - fill with phrases here and there, 

When I fail to find a suitable word, the vacuum continues to stare, 

I finally realize the futility, of denying the Nada within, 

But sharing my shallowness, with the world, is surely not my thing. 

I can write a poem about nothing, only if you hail it great, 

At least treat it read-worthy- even if likes are not in my fate.

Curse it or criticize it, show some reaction to boot, 

But ignore it and you will kill it- for my self has not taken root. 

It's still too dependent on this, that you get what I am feeling right, 

That you walk in my shoes delicately, not judging they are loose or tight.

I'm sure they pinch, they are meant to, they are not easy shoes to fill,  

Like me they are hollow on the inside, and yet are suffocating still. 

 

My self is a bit disorganized, to make sense is an order tall, 

Your coming in my life is like a song- making love out of nothing at all.

Naked and Ashamed

I wake up from my dream again, naked and ashamed, 

I've worked through most emotions, but shame is still untamed. 

What secrets am I hiding, what untold, am I afraid to say?

- I'm caught again, with my pants down, in the bright light of the day. 

Crouching under the public gaze, is a recurrent motif now, 

I feel exposed, singled out, diminished, and how!

I run from corner to the wall, hiding and staying low,

Why do I venture sans clothes, honestly, I don't know!

Is it a sign of defiance, this choosing to be nude? 

Did I forget to wear my pants, to shock the holy and the prude?

Was it a cold and deliberate act, to make me resilient and strong?

- That I could be comfy in who I am, not hide behind a mask or a thong. 

These dreams I had kept secret, in silence buried deep,

They stifled long, now losing grip- as I offer you a  peep.

Being a Management Guru

No management lessons please, sometimes a game is just a game, 

You don't know the sports enough, your connections are bound to be lame.

You draw rich leadership lessons, dissecting the winning side,  

If you could be humble like the loser, and take all in a days stride.  

But alas you choose to persist, you've got an audience to feed,

You lame post may fall dud, but you are back on your feet. 

Another match played to the galleys, another story to write, 

Twisting facts to suit narrative, is your natural birthright.

I can, for God, not fathom, your need to spew management lessons, 

Exposing you, though, heals me, my white man's burden lessens. 

I'm liberated at last, I did my good deed of the day, 

Using hashtags #Just saying, in spirit of play.  

 

Trying to give a spin to each game, is pathetic at best, 

But is it better than the need to be one up, my case I rest.

The First Baby Steps

Why does the child persist in walking, at the end what does he gain?

Crawling can satisfy the need for mobility, walking is filled with falling and pain.

The need to explore, or survive by foraging, are not a drive strong by itself- 

To endure the humiliation, mockery and hurt, and the deepening of doubt in ones self.

 

Go on existing on all fours, that's enough to satisfy your biological needs, 

To dream of standing on your feet, goes through a path where your skin bleeds.

But others have stood, and are standing still, I'm sure its no magic feat,

If only someone, can show me how its done, I'll be standing, again, on my feet.

 

My parents want to capture that moment, I bask in their reflected glory, 

The pride they'll feel, in my first baby steps- I've made that goal for me.

They handhold me, soothe me when I fall, and raise my hopes that I'll walk,

And eventually run and beat them to it - a thought at which I balk.

Its easy to exhort fall seven rise eight, but I'm small, frightened and hurt, 

If you really wanna help, get me back on my feet, instead of blurting sayings that are curt.

The Background Hum

Winning at times, losing at some,

I'm engrossed in life, despite the background hum.

It lingers and is jarring, a note searching for its tune,

Thoughts coming out of blue, like chills down the spine in June. 

Yet alive and vibrant, the search itself raises hopes,

Outwardly I'm directional - I've learnt all the ropes.

I can hide behind my success, the emptiness held within, 

By taking risks beyond my measures, I committed the holy sin.

Did we not lose ourselves, thrown from job to job,

Rising up the ladder each time, propelled by fate's plot.

In time we will be filthy rich, maybe own a unicorn,

Yet to have lost ourselves on the way, will stick like a thorn.

I can push it under the rug, use noise cancelling headphones,

But the hum gets louder, the more you curb, till it gets into your bones.

 

 

The Ship of Theseus

If a ship is replaced, plank by plank, does it still remain the same?

Though we substitute old, for fresh logs, when it sinks, who is to blame?

Or does it require structural remodeling, won't its essence be lost?

By overhauling all its component, wont we lose the machine and the ghost?

My blood gets replaced every few months, bones every third year,

I shed my skin every few weeks, like a snake, I fear.

You can think of it as decay, that I am thoroughly degenerate,

I view it as my ability to heal, to renew and regenerate.

My beliefs change with the passing of the hour, my personalty in a decade,

My values remain stable for years, my self a temporary facade.

If in the same day, I can laugh and cry, feel ennui and angst,

Then change is perhaps, the only variable, nothing in me is const.

Who am I, at the core, if I am always in flux,

That I can change to be, who I want, isn't that the matter's crux?

A Crisis of Sorts

What happens when a computer writes, better poems than you? 

The meter is right, the rhyme is perfect, while rhythm is all you do.

Do you give in to overpowering despair, or succumb to existential angst,  

Or do you admire the creative product, and in the heart you have nothing but thanks. 

 

Thanks that now there is someone, with whom you can compete, 

Thanks that when you are stuck now, you can use it to auto complete.

Thanks that now you can train her, to imitate your distinct style,

Thanks that with this collaboration, you can now both go a long mile.

A poem so co created, who can lay claim to it? 

Is it really plagiarism, if from the AI, I borrow a bit?

The turn of phrase, the placement in context,

Hasn't she learned, from reading from the best?

 

ChatGPT may be a threat to you, to me it raises the bar,

Deep Blue may have stunned Kasparov, in poetry I'll always be at par.