Don't Observe Me Yet

Like Schrodinger's cat, I'm both alive and dead,

I haven't decided yet, how to earn my bread.

I can be a poet or a psychologist, if I just make up my mind,

The specter of losing a self, leaves me in a perennial bind.

 

When stakes are so large, I can't embrace in a blip,

I can leave it to God and fate, or instead use a coin flip.

With nothing in my hands, maybe the regret will be small,

My future unencumbered of me, just due to the coin's fall. 

 

Can I live with that image, a creature of circumstance,

What happens to agency, about commitment what's my stance? 

Choosing one over the other, is painful now, and in times to come,

There's no getting around agony, whether I forego or choose some.   

 

I've made my life-and-death decision, I'll remain stuck in two boats,

If you'll allow, I'll pen psych themed poems, both my poison and antidotes. 

The Sign

My mouth is turning down, the eyes have started to swell,

As I think about you darling, not everything is well.

One look at my face, and it's as clear as hell,

I'm suffering in my bones, ready to retreat in my shell.

 

 My mouth is turned down, the eyes are filled with tears,

 I've learnt how to catch your eyes, over the passing years. 

 One look at my face, you'll come running to my aide,

 We attuned at some point, that debt has to be paid.

 

My mouth I turn down, the eyes I make moist,

I may not feel broken, but my sadness I hoist.

Could I be relieved, and happy that you're gone,

But to conform to society norms, feel sad and alone?

 

My mouth I've learnt to control, I've put on a poker face,

My sadness, if there, is for me, for you no external trace.  

The Invariants

Bothra yoga, or Dixit Diet,

Bend to each fad, with all your might.

Not sure how many, will stand time's test,

To me the invariant- daily walk, proper rest.  

 

Eisenhower matrix, or Pomodoro timer,

Amp your productivity, read a new primer.

I rarely follow through; so to tick off deep work,

I stay up late in night, being an owl my quirk. 

 

Box breathing, or JPMR,

Relieve stress, with the tool of the hour.

Daily meditation practice, can help you cope,  

For me writing a poem, my daily dose of dope.  

 

A vacation every 7 months, a date night each week,

Rituals and formulas are fine elsewhere, but in love it's all Greek.

Holding On

Pain wriggles through, it has a habit to be found,

Memories pierce and stab, as you're not around.

They say suffering is optional, it's how the situation you conceive,

That you can morph your pain into poems, and with art everyone deceive.

 

Guilt is an uninvited guest, that has overstayed its due,

Who left whom charred, is known but to few.

They say guilt can make you better, sculpt your future form,

That it can goad you till you transform, and rise above the norm.

 

Loss is a sneaky intruder, that can haunt once it's left your door,

With everything precious snatched, it can leave you lonely ever more.

They say loss leads to meaning, you realize what's worth holding onto,

That no future relation would suffer the fate, that befell you two.

 

It has cost me almost everything, yet I'm staying in the fight,

Giving in to despair would imply, that it was for nothing- and that's not right.

Writing's Side Effects

Writing helps me process, the pain of a withheld goodbye,

Each poem inches closer, but cannot bridge the gap, I sigh.

To catch your eyes is a fantasy, I've risen over that now,

If it's a formal closure I'm after, by myself I'll achieve how?   

Writing helps me reminisce, the joy of that fragile bond,

Each poem helps me manifest, that relation with a magic wand.

I can draw and redraw you as an angel, each time I pour my ink anew,

That a ghost from past can make me smile, who fathomed, who knew?  

 

Writing helps me reflect, with equanimity our joint fate,

Each poem prods me forward, to back down and wait.

In time I've started adjusting, to your absence from my craft,

By etching you in my poems, don't I risk losing you from my heart?

 

Writing helps me dump on my readers, my deepest, smouldering concerns, 

That they get charred in the process, is a cost justified to heal my burns. 

The Shifting Shape of Stories

I had a blessed start, with IIT tag on my head,

The techno-managerial jobs, I did not really dread.

The lure of a different calling, sapped my energy, left me dead,

With effort I climbed out of the hole, making psychology my bread.

 

I met psychology in college, it was love at first sight,

After decades of courtship, tying the knot didn't work out right,

My earlier passion vanished, it became just another job,

Now that I've started my own venture, this might not end in a sob.  

  

Venturing on The Fools Quest, is a Cinderella story, 

Writing poems that went unread, didn't lead to fame or glory.

Till there appeared a fairy, bestowing on my poems a magical power,

Disappearing at the stroke of midnight, but in my heart poems daily flower.

 

It's ended well for me in these stories, but perhaps at a cost and curse,

On my original quest to be a good person, did I slowly go from bad to worse?

Jobs-To-Be-Done

I hired my sadness today, a poem I wanted to write,

In which I could once more showcase, the abyss I daily fight.  

The poem needed a subject, darkness came to my rescue,

Pathos stabbed me in the belly, as if waiting on a cue.

 

I hired my sadness today, to process and feel good,

If I can make sense of my suffering, don't you think I should?

When my words disfigure the page, the ink becomes less black,

So I promptly pour it in poems, though I know the feeling will be back.

 

I hired my sadness today, to dazzle you with my art and skill,

Unmindful that the wound scraped, could shatter me, or even kill.

The poem needs an audience, you love poems of agony and pain,

To catch your eyes I'll happily scratch, and fester the wound again.

 

I go through my days hunting, for moments of sadness and shame,

I perhaps need to sit with them more often, not get lost in the healing game.