Real.

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Real as the purple bruises
Real as the vulnerable me
Find peace in the real you,
For being real sets you free.

 

Sukanya.

Raw

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Unknown Artist

 

 

 

Have you stayed raw lately
With your flesh still clinging to your soul
changing skins
For every excuse and rationalisation

Raw is denied, raw is abhorred
Raw is uncomplex, naked in all senses
From raw we escape
And raw we want to seek

And no, it’s not a necessity because
Sometimes you’ll pause and stare
For you’ll forget your real one
With all the masks you wore

You’ll often call the false one your own.

Until it will give an itch
And crawl up under your skin
Infect your heart
And murder your soul

You’ll realize you’re sick
Struck with a terminal disease
Life will become a nauseous ride
And plenty of time of endure

For I am raw.

 

 

Sukanya.

Work.

 

Alex Pillin.jpg
Artwork By Alex Pilin

 

The dark sheets are tangling,
and so is my spirit to keep myself awake
in the wee hours of the morning.

I have to work
and by work, I intend
lending my knowledge and substance
to thieves smiling in suits.

They call it called work.
The ultimatum of fifteen years
of dreaming with open eyes
of having the power to change.

I am being consciously robbed by society.
And my people are the accomplices
because of their worldly possessions
of talents and the ability to dream were snatched too

They want you to exchange
these treasured belongings of yours
like your gift of creating magic with sounds
or evoke feelings with mere words

for coloured paper with unmatched worth
they put a price tag on your ways of life
ask you to sell your worth

in replacement for attractive litter
calling commodities obligations of life.

You know, you know all.
Yet you prefer to blindfold your eyes
and enjoy the distress

Your real riches are validation
You celebrate sadness
Your value misery
And misery you chase to seek,
and recommend your loved ones too.

Like pills, society prescribes it
drugs themselves of ignorance.
My ancestors did it, and so will I.
I will go to work too.

 

 

Sukanya.
©reserved.

Vase.

I imagined myself as a solid vase,
having a set of true colours,
and the strength to contain
the secrets of the world.

But I am still a piece of clay,
gyrating in the hands of people
disguised as potters.

Each running a hand,
skilled or unskilled,
giving me a shape,
and a direction to incline.

Fingers are those which make me,
and break me.
Some pointing at me,
and some pointing away from me.

Unaware of my outcome,
and frightened by the potters,
I do as they say.

“Of course I cannot sculpt myself,
it’s foolish and daring.
I will rotate until
they are tired of playing.”

I contemplate.
I feel the joy of admiration,
and nightmares of crashing.

Can I be a vase?
Or is being a vase
the potter’s false dream?

 

 

Sukanya.

You, or I?

What’s the difference between you and I,
when I am called you,
and you call yourself I?

When the finger is pointed towards me,
and that trigger of tongue is set free,
shooting words and words and words.

I say that I have the right to speak,
but what do we do when they do?

I escape, and I dive.

I drown in the sea of media,
choked of social graces and Savior-faire,
and swept to the seashore,
unconscious of my identity.

We are scared of entities of doubtful existance.

We strive to be original,
yet chase someone else’s dreams.

We are given choices, and call ourselves free.

‘The drowning’ causes side effects although.

A strange dementia sweeps over us.

We become forgetful of thinking diversely,
failing to acknowledge our conscience.

The side effects can be fatal.
We may become the living dead.

It’s time we label ourselves specimens,
rather than humans,
for we are the outcome of the social experiments of the hegemony

We inhale explanations,
and exhale confusion.

And end up retiring to our beds,
dreaming of the world we never created.

Sukanya.
©reserved.