Being Icarus

Poetry writes me a blank cheque, that I'm not sure when I can encash,

As I aim for the sun, and land amongst stars, whether I'll rise upwards or crash.

Whether there's money in the bank, whether my wings are solid or made of wax,

And in the lure of a future windfall, I'll continue to pay the present hefty tax.

Psychology is the diminishing wallet, that suffices for my monthly expense,

They say the sky gets punctured, so throwing a stone or 2 makes sense.

Whether the throw has enough power, to put a dent in the universe,

And in the hope the stone gets stuck, I open the strings of my purse.

Programming gives me the credit line, ensuring I'll make ends meet,

When your past is as star-studded, there are eager lenders at your feet.

Whether I'm ready to be bound again, whether I'll split as EMI,

And if I default on this option, then what's left of me- who am I?

I was a star yesterday, I'll be a star again, it's only in the interim I'm stone/dust,

It's no longer a question of whether I can, but as I burn to ashes, write I must.

The Minority Report

An AI makes decisions, no clairvoyants involved, 

Who is aggressive and needs detention, and who can be readily absolved. 

A few data points cluster, collectively predict death,

An SOP operationalized, so that someone can keep drawing breath. 

The moment the alert is raised, the team is on steroids, 

To save a single life, is as sacred as preventing riots.

They have to follow the protocol, arrest the flagged person,

Keep him confined and out of reach, so he doesn't commit one.

Never mind the public spectacle, the humiliation, the guilt,

His crime to share his thoughts, with an app that to prevent was built.

To stop the event from happening, you need a proactive stance,

You need to pull all stops, can't leave anything to chance.

He had a fleeting suicidal thought, all he was looking for was a shoulder to cry,

In your zeal for #ZeroStudentSuicide, are you sure you didn't push him closer to die?

Diamond Extraordinary!

I can shine brighter, I'm raw, uncut,

To appease your eyes, I'm Ok being stuck,

Perpetually in a rut, trying to forever fit in,

If I can't be a Kohinoor, please throw me in a bin.

I have potential, you say, some polish is all I need,

I sparkle at moments- to blind the sun is my greed.

My desire for perfection, to self-actualise,

Makes me susceptible, to your manipulations and lies.

What if I'm an ordinary stone, normal, and boring?

If I can't find my place, in the crown or your ring?

Does my existence become nought, should I keep grinding through?

In the compulsion to become better, am I losing myself, too?

You can play with your diamonds, I prefer being of little use,

I can live freely without worrying, that I'll eventually to others lose!

Life is Alive- and Kicking!

Bills piling up, past salaries to get,

Soul-crushing labor, till targets are met.

When I look up close, life seems Hell,

I'm not getting paid, but am ready to sell.

Don't wish for something, it might come true,

I'd pined for a calling, through and through,

Boasting I'd pay, to do a meaningful job,

The prophecy fulfilled- why this hue and sob?

When I scrutinize in detail, it gets magnified, and it hurts,

When I zoom out and distance, almost a hilarity lurks.

How to see it for what it is- balancing purpose and plight,

I might not have earned a lot, but it all seems so right.

My life is a looming tragedy, I'm struggling to survive,

It's also a slapstick comedy; the more I slip, I come alive.

The Race Called Life

Life is a sprint, you gotta keep ahead, from the start,

If you fall behind, push your limits, you can't lose heart.

You won't get a second chance, you only live once,

If you stumble, that's the end, so don't be a dunce.

Life is a marathon, you gotta conserve and pace,

If you are slow, at least be steady, you'll win this race.

Train for it daily, in bits, and your stamina will improve,

Finishing the marathon is enough , beyond there's nothing to prove.

Life is a relay, you gotta pass the baton to the next,

Live vicariously through your children, under the generativity pretext. 

You've done your part, now to the NextGen- upwards and on,

They'll continue the race forward, long after you're gone. 

Life is not a race, it's a sacred pilgrimage,

It's more fun when traveling together, defying this cut-throat age.

A Plea

I'm breaking at the fringes, I'm looking for cure, 

To get rid of the symptoms, I'll therapy endure.

All I can hope for realistically, is to turn hysterical misery,

Into common unhappiness - life beyond that is a mystery.

I want to grow at the seams, you need to help me thrive,

Be my guide, be my mentor, you can make me come alive.

As I replace the doomsday blinkers, with rose-tinted glass,

Help me achieve worldly success, then label all that a farce.

Enough of trying to fit in, when I'm a poem, why be prose?

As my counsellor, please don't sermon, just draw me close.

There's magic in presence, don't try your antics, just be there,

Instead of growth or healing, just let me be, if you care.

Therapist, coach, counselor, you need to be human first,

Meet me halfway before judging, if I'm at my best or worst.

Condemned to Write

Feeding off others' ideas, do I have an original voice?

If I don't write for some time, is that a realistic choice?

If a week goes by somehow, without putting to paper pen,

The devil within starts badgering, what next, and when?

When you pretend to be a poet, there's a pressure to perform,

To lay bare your innards and suffering, in a ready-to-eat form,

Just add some tears and simmer, the concoction boils to life,

You can serve it slow and sizzling, or let it pierce like a knife.

You smile on your presumed power, that there's magic to your craft,

You can manipulate the reader's feelings, by polishing the first draft.

As you revise and repair ad nauseam, to create the desired impact,

You lose yourself in the process —that's part of your Faustian Pact. 

What started as a sacred Odyssey, to heal and find myself,

Is now about you, my reader, to lead towards Heaven, not Hell.