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. 

Why Write?

Cheaper than therapy, more effective than gossip, 

Writing is like taking, from the fountain a clear sip.

Muddy thoughts disappear, the dust settles down,

It's like taking a bath daily, a practice no one can frown.

It's more than living, it's being conscious of the fact,

It's the pause before responding, whether, and when to act.

If I don't put to paper, the thoughts hijack my brain,

They make a permanent residence, come storm or rain.  

It's not a hobby, it's not art, it's maintaining my soul,

When I write like no one's reading, I am really on a roll.

I write for you readers, but more so for myself,
The read, reflect, write cycle, is for me to get help.

Writing is the philosopher's stone, transforming venom to love,

Poetry helps me connect with you, and the God within and above.

Getting Entangled Again?

The goalpost has lost its meaning, I'm dribbling without aim,

I don't want that 1 cr package, nor do I wish to any title claim.

This was supposed to be Nirvana, why am I feeling rudderless and lost? 

With nothing to move me forward, I've found serenity —but at what cost?

 

Without a dream anchoring my heart, it's better to be dead,

The goal could be writing daily, leaving nothing unsaid.

I don't want to be read widely, touching a life is enough,

But for that, I need to focus, ignore all the other stuff. 

On a sunny day, I'm enthralled, by a thousand random goals,

From publishing a self-help book, to saving several suicidal souls.

To meaningfully make a difference, I've to ruthlessly cull some,

Chase a few, not hedge my bets, let it leave me scared and numb.

 

What am I if not a poet? I've put in that basket all my eggs,

I don't need acclaim or money, you read and reflect is all the poet begs.

Yet Another Parting

Sunsets constantly remind us, that endings can be beautiful too,

There is grace in exiting softly, in the long night you will renew.  

The passage may look dark and frightening, but it always leads to sunrise,

The more you embrace the rhythms of life, the more you emerge serene and wise.

Winter doesn't beg around summer, to stick around for long and good,

Come autumn, and trees have to let go, the fallen leaves nourishing the wood.

Failure isn't being reduced to ashes, it's refusing to rise like a phoenix again,

That you must have chaos in yourself, to give birth to a star, is a phenomenon insane. 

The default of the universe is not stability, someone set the setting to change,

Each time you choose and let go of the past, the future possibilities grow in range. 

The leaves that don't serve, the faster you shed, the sooner new blossoms will grow,

When currents overturn the stable raft, you have to board once more and row.

Regenerate, recuperate, it's nine times too many,

The cat within me pensively purrs, do I have lifeline any?

Time - Scarce or Abundant?

5 cups of coffee, 4 hours of sleep,

A cluttered calendar, I habitually keep.

I'm lucky that I'm busy, it could have been worse,

I could be on the job market, draining my purse.

  

Rising after 10, enjoying a siesta, 

Savoring my coffee, while chatting with the barista, 

I'm lucky that I can afford, to let my hair down,

If unplugging helps me reboot, why would you frown?

After burning out at a vocation, it's time for a career break,

If your annual vacation is calling, recharge on a beach or lake. 

Work hard on the weekdays, weekends are strictly for fun,

Always bookend your days, with a mindful walk or run. 

Time is indeed a currency, don't whimper that you have less to spend,

As you accumulate each day a sliver, use it to enjoy yourself to no end.

The Moonshot

Players are many, but winners take all,

A few giants dominate, over an army of small.

Everyone has the same books, streams the top 10 charts,

A few hijack even graffiti, like Banksy in the arts.

All may doodle, all may write,

All may cut albums, with lyrics that bite.

Only a few become viral, get entrenched on top,

The inequality grows, despite many official sops.

In the UBI clad future, all can daily produce,

Who will consume all that artwork? It's not hard to deduce.

A few close friends and family, because the local audience is gone,

On a stage that's global, without the spotlight, you are all alone.

I don't write for the masses, or to be the current sensation, 

Stirring you, my love, is enough; who needs to be the talk of the nation?