The Matrix Realisations

Not plugged into the matrix, I'm plugged into my phone,

I'm on every social network, yet while scrolling feel alone.

What am I if not the sum, of my mobile number and email address?

That I am more digital than real, how do this reality I redress?

I can choose to swallow the red pill, and look you straight in the eyes,

You'd be hunched on your phone, that there are sentients, is a pack of lies.

The blue pill prevents awkwardness, of feeling human again,

When I don't look and can't be rejected, it saves me all the pain.  

If even for a singular moment, someone tries to yank me off,

The algorithm serves me more posts, is a hydra, all you may scoff.

It's a lost and futile battle, I end up drowning in the rabbit hole,

My body and mind have been harnessed, the only salvation is my soul.

I might be a slave to the machines, I still can dream to fly,

By writing a poem daily, I can to liberate you daily try.

Weekend Recuperation

Weekdays sap my energy, weekends I sleep like a log,

To recharge my body fully, all noise and light I block.

I resist the laptop's start button, it's a screen-free time and zone,

I shy from blue rays, or smart tabs, as if transported to an age of stone.

Mind may race with thoughts still, I steady some words on a page,

Journaling, mindfulness, meditation, all tools to hammer the mind's rage.

Volunteering my time to causes dear, fills the spiritual void,

Sunrise and sunset fill my cup, the emptiness is destroyed.

The emotions bottled during the week, resurface and bubble up,

As I pour my heart on paper, it's filled again- my heart's cup.

Toxic people pushed aside, I choose with whom to socialise, 

I guard my solitude with my life, I know where my priority lies. 

I may heal my body and mind, but there will always be something amiss,

My weekend will remain bedridden, till I write a sonnet for you, miss!

Really Simple Lifting

What do most writers pine for, to be read, and read widely,

That books cost money to print, prevent the idea fire spreading wildly. 

That's the reason the middlemen- the publishers were born,

In the age of screens and tablets, their relevance is all but gone. 

I can now download from libgen, or read online at SciHub,

Drink from the philosophical fountain, while seated in a cafe or pub.

The knowledge has flown from cages, I no longer need the author's consent,

They would be happy with the arrangement, only the publishers resent.

When I pen a poem daily, leaning on the shoulders of giants,

Do I need to credit everyone? I'm undecided and defiant.

I may sincerely try to recollect, but there are many more unconscious sway,

So should I compensate the publishers, who, anyway, peanuts authors pay. 

Consent, credit, or compensation, the genuine authors don't care a bit,

You can train AI on their texts all you want; humans already pilfer without regret. 

Choosing Well

Wading through a hundred unread emails, rather than savoring James Joyce,

Filling your calendar with meetings and to-dos, keeping busy is a choice. 

You may lament hunching all day through, that for yourself, you have no time,

It's you who said yes to all those requests, nine times out of nine.

Compulsively reading and replying to emails, afraid to lose the signal in the noise,

Buried under the weight of others' expectations, taking stress is a choice.

You can whine and claim victimhood, trade freedom for responsibilities,

Ruminate and bear it all stoically, but it's all self-inflicted, please. 

Hesitant to send that email out, I still haven't found my voice,

Not writing that sonnet for a loved one, having regret, is a choice.

All the potential dates that I let slip by, the career breaks I didn't take,

I lived a passive, almost sheltered life, adventureless for Christ's sake. 

Joy, too, is a choice I can exercise, pen a poem every day,

I don't have to earn the right to be happy; it should precede, what do you say? 

Evaluation and Evolution

Hunched on comp late at night, music blaring loud,

Programming was my discipline, a monk lost in the crowd.

The slew of promotions and salary hikes, kept me happy for some times,

But the more I ran after money and status, the steeper were the fines.

A bigger car doesn't house a broader smile, a hard-earned lesson I got,

To find more meaning and purpose in my life, in psychology, a refuge I sought.

What better than to save some lives and heal? I had discovered my true calling.

But the impact is not that widespread, so my career needs another overhauling.

Comforts are good, legacy is better, I am now looking for some joy and fun,

To lose myself as I write daily, using clever rhymes and desperate puns. 

Each poem crafted with love and care, a message in a bottle shipped away, 

In the desire for laurels, I may end up with wreaths, but I'll choose poetry any day.

You may think I'm unstable and crazy, I may choose something different yet again,

But evaluating and constantly evolving your life, are all attributes of the highly sane.

You Can't Brush This Off

About a lakh students were notified, nine thousand or so responded in time,

It was to determine who needs help, not providing it before exams, a crime.

They were preparing for JEE and NEET, each with a dream in their heart,

Finding who was genuinely depressed or anxious, was both a science and an art.

Validated assessments were used, they were screened for suicidal ideation too,

The results were shocking and worrisome; thousands were feeling daily blue.

They felt as if they were a failure, were fatigued and sleep-deprived,

All in an effort to be in the top 2-3%, who would get the coveted prize.

One in six was battling daily, with thoughts they would be better off dead,

I was aghast when I saw the pie charts; the larger slices were all red.

More than half of those who fell in the category, actively contemplating suicide,

Had no one to lean on in bad times, believed no one was on their side.

The situation is truly heartbreaking, but timely support is all one needs,

Please come together to fight this menace, I alone can't, the poet in me pleads.

Capturing a Moment

Should this be an Insta story, or should I make it a post?

A post leaves marks for eternity, while stories within a day are lost.

That stories disappear without much fanfare, gives me much more leeway,

Their impressions won't hound me forever, means I have more and more to say.

Stories are for current followers, I can let my hair down,

Try a few random filters, pout, and act like a clown.

The profile, on the other hand, has to be deliberately curated and fine.

The posts have to attract strangers, who find me charming all the time. 

The post is my aim at legacy, an effort to perpetuate the magic,

Of the moment as it happened, in which I wasn't fully present- how tragic,

For in the desire to steal a snapshot, I embellished the experience in a post,

Stories are much less demanding; I need to wear the mask for 24 hrs most.

Let me be the poet of the moment, with stories I don't have to much lie,

As I try to sneak and catch a bubble, hope it won't just pop and die.