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.

Turning Pro

Being an amateur is easy, you can dabble in art,

Publish papers here and there, look the scientific part.

Or start freelancing, become a solopreneur,

No pressure to earn billions, or find cancer's cure.

 

Expectations arise, as you start turning pro,

You need to create from thin air, at the very word go.

With each passing year, research thesis should fructify,

Your business yield returns, or you better say goodbye.

 

Life becomes interesting, when you are a pro at your craft,

You make variations on a theme, your work always a draft.

You look at things with new eyes, ready to revise and update,

You create impact in the real world, not leave it to chance and fate. 

 

After writing a hundred poems, I thought I had turned pro,

I'm still struggling to get through, did I manage to penetrate, bro?

Am I Being a Luddite?

I need to connect deeply, with the students who use my app,

So I task the GPT to create personas, machine intelligence I tap.

The living, breathing student, with pains and hopes in flesh,

Is inferior to the collective insight, which AI seems to bless.

 

Suggested solutions include,  creating a journaling tool,

But to craft it afresh and think creatively, is only for the fool.

Just go through a dozen journaling apps, pick features tried and true,

And ask the LLM for journaling prompts, why reinvent the wheel anew.

 

I need to check if my solution, has any intended impact,

I feed the model user activities,  clicks and views are the solid fact.

It gurgles out whether the users, used and liked it at all,

Whether it was life transforming to a student, is a quantum too small.  

When you ignore the human experts, and outsource all to GPTs,

You may meet your product metrics, but you will fall short of being caring MHPs. 

 

 

 

 

 

Social Media Anxiety

I hit the refresh button casually, to check the daily blog stats,

It's become a mindless habit, like people on Insta watching cats.

I'm pleasantly surprised, there's a surge, its the World Poetry Day,

I pick the pen as the predator within, is stirred by the smell of the prey.

  

I spend an hour or two on my craft, laying bare the depths of my soul,

To move you with my naked vulnerability, to touch you deep is my goal. 

The next few minutes are fruitfully spent, sharing on each and every SM handle,  

I'm glad to receive a few likes and comments, as I burn the midnight candle.

 

I view for the nth time, my own status update,

You haven't seen it yet, the anxiety doesn't abate.

The morning comes and goes, the story is set to shortly expire,

How can I catch your eyes again, I'm in a deep quagmire.  

Nearly 400 sonnets written, I write yet another one for you,

I'm waiting for the day you'll not just see, but like and comment too.

Rolling up the Sleeves

I want to write daily, pen poems of hope,

But life throws a curve-ball, when someone uses a rope.  

I feel helpless and trapped, like the one who life took,

Have to constantly return, to 'Preventing Suicide' handbook.

 

For all my knowledge, for all my reach,

For an impact on ground, I have to do, not teach.  

Gatekeeper trainings are good, they help others identify,

Those who are vulnerable and needy, and would otherwise die.

 

But I need to go further, it seems a personal fault,

When despite sincere efforts, the suicides don't halt.

Even a single life lost, shakes me to the very core,

Makes me question my efforts, leaves me hurting and sore.

 

It's easy to give slogans, like #MissionZeroStudentSuicide,

Time to deliver on the promise - many have already died.

 

Holi Celebrations

Holi is an occasion, to let your hair down,

Brighten the day of others, and in the process with joy drown.

As you get drenched in colors, you can reveal what's beneath,

Something vulnerable and fun-loving, like the tongue shielded by the teeth.

 

You wear masks all days, today the face is pink and blue, 

That should give you some courage, to show your colors true.

There's a child inside you, that's not afraid to stranger's hug, 

Color them with their own gulal, eager to snatch their pichkari and mug.

 

Dance with abandon, or dance to catch her eyes,

Play songs that are naughty, saying boys will be boys.

Some cover with abeer, others let it drain with water, 

Everyone deserves at least a day, to flush their pain with laughter. 

 

A day prior we burnt evil, both within and without,

Today we need to color life again, that's what this day's about. 

 

Which Version Are You Telling?

Stories have a hold and power, as emotion and drama sells,

But the most dangerous stories, are the ones we tell ourselves.  

Confirmation bias entails, we need the story to be true,

If our story is that we are depressed, the world looks a tinge of blue.  

What myth am I acting out, is a question to ponder often, 

The possibility of a different narration, can reality's blow soften.

If I don't make the unconscious conscious, I'll keep calling it fate,

But if I know how my story ends, I can change the climax, my mate.  

Those who believe in survival are the warriors, others are on a heroic quest,

If you think you don't live the stories you tell, do me favor and be my guest.

You don't need to get rid of the stories, just take a baby step back,

Just twist and tweak your story a bit, till light comes from the crack. 

As I have to write daily, you may think it's a punishment, a sort of Sisyphian task, 

By invoking the Muse, at command, I reverse the punishment, and in its glory bask.