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.

Be Ready To Die

Hell is life drying up, not flowing all the way,  

Neither ending nor collapsing, just silently withering away. 

If Heaven is your burning desire, be ready to go through hell,

Accept and claim your cross with joy, be the one for whom, tolls the bell.

 

For only from the ashes, can a phoenix resurrect,

If you are not ready to die, living doesn't seem correct.

The only way to transform, is through pain and suffering,

Only when you end something, can there be a new beginning.

 

No tree can grow to heaven, unless its roots reach down to hell, 

It derives sustenance from its fallen leaves, alchemizes them into its body cell. 

Letting go is a prerequisite, to reap the fruits of spring,

By chipping slowly on your old self, you'll not a transformation bring.

 

If I want to transcend to a higher plane, I'll need to leap in the air above,

Leave the comforting ground of established relationships, in the quest for true love. 

May You Burn Bright

What is to give light, must for years burning endure,

If you want to light the world, self sacrifice is the only cure.

To become a beacon for others, you have to grow your height,

Burn like the sun in the sky, far and wide share your light.

 

Some dazzle with their brilliance, like a diamond that is rare,

Others light the flame in others, ensuring they carry further the flare. 

I cannot shine at someone's expense, nor pass my malady to thee,

I need to be consumed to my very core, the burning is what defines me. 

 

What burns with so much passion, will get consumed as soon,

Better to burst like a supernova, than to become a dull moon.  

Even in my dramatic passing, I'll for years keep shining bright,

Not wax and wane as the time flows, dependent on sun's light.  

There's a glory in burning bright, like the sun dominating the day sky, 

I prefer a galaxy of (k)night stars, each burning with their personal why.

Solitude

I seek solitude, not because its easy, but because its necessary, 

In the constant bustle, I'll lose my voice, is my constant worry. 

Time alone is deeply frightening, you have to confront the man within, 

Do you recognize him in the mirror, or has he morphed in the battle to win?

 

I seek solitude, to build connections, first and foremost with myself,

Your bonds become stronger and mutual, only when you carve a space for yourself.

Time alone is hugely liberating, you can feel the divine presence,

By connecting with nature and humanity, to your existence you add essence.  

I seek solitude, not as a conscious choice, but as a habit that is firmly ingrained,

The only journey worth is within oneself, is the wisdom from the quests I have gained.

Time alone is absolutely essential, it applies a balm to my battered self,

As I heal, it makes me ready for assault, of the new days promise of power and pelf. 

 

I seek solitude, ofttimes solitude seeks me, we are made for each other,

The more I drown the chatter within, the more I have to say to you, my brother.  

Honoring Purpose

When life lacks purpose, how far can you get?  

You can make it in life, but are your deeper needs met? 

Anxiety fills the void, where meaning should be,

Pleasure becomes the norm, when life is all but empty.

 

You may have means to live, do you have a meaning to live for?

You may have arrived at your destination, is it the right one, are you sure?

Meaning shields you from suffering, from existential vacuum and despair,

That you can find meaning in your suffering, is paradoxically a statement fair. 

Those who have a why to live, can bear with almost any how,

Purpose proudly proclaims, life is just looking like a wow.

The journey becomes fulfilling, you truly become alive,

Just do what makes you burn, rest all is a pack of lie.  

My work was my life to me, now it's poetry that fulfills,

To feel alive I've to write each day, though it may never pay the bills. 

 

 

Standing Up

All fingers move in one direction, the thumb goes against the grain, 

Why should I write, what purpose served, many doubts lurk in my brain.

A moment strikes the emotional chords, becomes the opposable thumb,

I reach out to grasp, can’t help but pick, not writing seems so dumb.

The little finger in my mind, tells me I’m insignificant and small,

I’ve arrived, but am still an imposter, is the ring finger’s call. 

The middle finger abruptly stands out, reminds how audience may react,

You may have to sell out, to succeed, is the index fingers pact. 

My heart resists all doomsday talks, gives me a big thumbs up,

Each line I write, makes it crystal clear, that poetry is my cup.

The final form the poem takes, is a result of complex interplay,

Of raw emotions served with ice cold craft, a synergy as they say.

All beauty and art made possible, by the courage to non conform,

As my heart stands up to my brain, I can finally give my feelings a form.