Untitled

There was a time I worked, for titles and designations,

On not getting promoted, I would hand in the resignations. 

With each new job hop, the title got more glorified,

To say salary mattered little, I would have lied.

 

One fine day, I took a clean break,

A solopreneur, no salary to home take.

Just doing what I loved, no titles to restrict,

It barely paid the bills, but the lifestyle clicked.

 

Then came a time, a grand title was offered,

You can build from scratch, the proposal was proffered.  

I took the bait thinking, I'll be finally making decisions,

It turned out to be another job, following someone else's vision. 

 

The wheel has turned again, I need to become untitled,

Just focus on what I love - that's the least to which I'm entitled. 

Becoming Better

My colleague has a better Macbook, with an efficient M4,

I was happy with my M2, now I'm disgruntled and sore.

I'm stuck with the 2022 model, can't optimize my time or task,

If I desire more power and productivity, is it too much to ask?

 

My colleague is fair complexioned, with more hair on his head,

When we stand in the same frame, my hairline makes me sad.

I spend tons on shampoos, even consider a transplant,

How can we get thicker and longer, my hairs collectively chant.

  

My colleague is better organized, has great friends with no strife,

They say you become an average, of the five people in your life.

If I want to be happy and productive, I need to surround with positive vibe,

And ruthlessly like an organization, cull negative friends from my life.

 

My colleague is a better person, he doesn't compare himself with others,

In trying to optimize my life, I'm missing what I already have, brothers. 

How Do I Kill Thee?

Let me count the ways, how do I kill thee,

I kill thee with bullets and knives, for your horn and ivory.

I kill thee till you're endangered, and then I kill some,

The price on your head increases, the rarer you become.

 

I kill thee in a jiffy, by disrupting your habitat,

By introducing new species, like the Norway Rat.

It eats up other species, causing death and disease,

The more pristine an island, the more I destroy with ease.

 

I kill thee slowly, by destroying your home,

When rain-forests disappear, half the species will be gone.

I kill thee for my civilization, for my need and greed,

When your population dwindles, I've to artificially breed.

This web is too intricate, I'm not killing thee,

Let me count the ways, I'm killing me.

Staying Unique

I am unique and distinct, I have an acute edge,

The best are well rounded, is what they allege.

If you want to shine, let's smooth your curves,

Just pretend to be normal, don't get on our nerves.  

 

With edges jutting out, you can hurt and pierce,

The world needs you to fit in, not be sharp and fierce.

It constantly brushes against you, making you dull and round,

Till you are left a shadow of your self, beaten to the ground.  

To find your pointed corners, you'll need courage and will,

A readiness to accept truth, to seek the red pill.

Once you confront your uniqueness, warts and all,

There's no turning back, you'll heed the heroic call.

 

Merely discovering is not enough, it takes efforts and strategy to remain you,

As you brush against the world, to sharpen your edges, let friction the magic do.

Sand(y) Mandala

Powdered stones and gems, used to make the colored sand,

Intricate patterns weaved from it, detailed to the very end.

Geometric shapes that are crafted, with care and surgical precision,

To lose themselves in space and time, is the monk's self heal decision. 

 

The Mandala is captivating, colors and shapes have a meaning,

But to get attached to that image, is to the monk a bit demeaning.

Deliberately, in one fell swoop, he destroys with his very hands,

Sand gathers in the center, to be immersed in nearby wetlands. 

Destruction of an entity, that was ephemeral as ever,

Enables one to start afresh, makes one artistic forever.

You can't rest on your laurels, you need to daily toil,

- It feels like a child's play, when you return soil to soil. 

 

I daily distill emotions, and via my poems the pain destroy,

That each day I have to labor anew, makes my heart hum with joy.  

 

Daily Habit

40 % of life is habits, should I dial it up to 100 %,

Or is 10 % more than enough, and 5 % more decent.

Should I end up rationing my time, with the same fanatic zeal,

With which I try to form habits, failing even once a disastrous deal. 

"Keep going" said a voice in my head, '"never miss two days in a row",

The more it hurts, the more you need to stick, to hell with creativity and flow.

If you are able to meditate for 10 minutes, make an effort and stretch it to fifteen,

Don't get lost in the timeless experience, waiting next in line are the habits umpteen. 

 

Professionals stick to the schedule, amateurs let life get in the way,

If you are a fitness freak you train daily, for a marathon come what may. 

An amateur takes life one day at a time, a leisure walk while chatting with friends,

He's not obsessed with his destination, just enjoying his journey that never ends. 

 

I don't intend to write a poem daily, I don't want to make it a chore,

The less I write from labor, but love, to leave a legacy my chances are more.

Perfection Perfected

Before I had a child, I was the perfect parent,

I knew how to raise well, my skills more than apparent.

The messy reality of parenting, made me realize at last,

It's more a trial and error, you have to dance slow- not fast.

 

Before I tied the knot, I was the perfect spouse,

I knew when to pull closer, and when to leave the house.

Now that we are bonded together, I see myself warts and all,

I've accepted living in the moment, happily ever after, an order tall.

 

Before I was born, I was the perfect child,

I knew how to please my parents, and never act wild.

The fact that I'm in this world, makes me aspire to fit in,

That I'll never be a carbon copy, is a realization that has sunk in.

 

Before I penned my thoughts, I was the perfect poet,

Now I'm all about rhythm and rhyme, and the message is lost.