Srividya Sivakumar's Blog, page 2

Hypocrite

i lurk these cyber spacesthere are so many worlds to gobut everywhere i reach tonothing feels like home.how sad that though you'reright by my sidei search for you this waybut even forme, dogged pursuerthis journey has beenin vain.so i move onas i am wont to dofinding someone better to replace youand you can go back to your indentured lifebut pretend you're your own manstruggling against lies and strife.

Refuse

If i could i wouldsteal all the  thingsthe world doesn't needand write them into poetry.an unwanted childan orphan anniewill feel right at homewith a lost soul like meand victims of disdain the unlike other kindwill realise i am goodonce i make up my mindthe bird with a broken beakthe woman from a broken homewill find i am broken tooand shelter in my poemand shall we talkof books well writtenthat no one seems to wanti take them in and enjoytheir beauty and their old fashioned fontthe desolate manon a snow-filled peakfinds pleasure in my words’ embracehe thinks i am his as he readsthere’s no hurry no racethe world keeps looking for ways to discardthe things it thinks it doesn’t needbut for them i acheand they don't disappoint
despite my indecent greed. 

Baggage Claim

that battered suitcasedoesn't look like a lotbut maybe it’s got magica few sticks, some potthat ordinary duffle bagcould tell you stories like you wouldn't believeof a dirty weekend getawaywhere time went by, swiftly, tenderly, fervidlymaybe you'd prefer the matched set in crocodile skinthat speaks of expensive spas, sex, salvation and sinand there’s the old steel trunkrustic in its appealthat tells me a village girlhas made a green card deali bet in the box packed to breaking pointare ready mixes and powders galoreto curb the worst of homesicknesseswhen your heart’s hurting for morethere’s that cheap grey vanity caseunobtrusive , the way she wears her faceshe doesn't call attention to her ageand the brushes hold back their storiesthere’s the guitar and all its gloriesand a little child’s bubblegum pink bagand a suitcase with an officious sounding name tagand there’s me.that black bagfilled to the hilt with booksand memories of you.that’s all i could fit in, in the end.

On the 'Shradh'

i cannot believe that those departed are crows.my father'd be a majestic falconmy mother a little sparrowmy sister would be a chirping magpiehe, a mischievous ravenyou'd be a rather serious storkand i'll be the proud peacockwho thinks all the alternatives matter.

Abuse

i could show you the wing tips under my eyesand bruises of every shape and sizei could show you scars on my arms and feetand puckered flesh from searing heati could show you the stripes on my backand files that fill a sackfull of headlines that decreewhat was done to methe violence of my house that is plain to seebut i'll show you onea love bite on my breastand you'll realizehow heartless he truly is.

Paired

i always place fork with spoonvinyl record with show tunesalt and pepper in potsline trophies together of battles well foughti keep tea and coffee togetherand animals attached to their furi places shoes and socks good to goand lamps awash in their warm glowi do not break flower from stalk or wear high heels on a walki match locks and keysand fragrance with breezeand slippers and smokeand mood with tokei don't separate right from wrongor sorrow from songthere's no pleasure in drinking aloneor separating sex from the phonei always butter my toastand declare love the mostit's like your fingers and my hairand sensing love in the airif i can help iti never separate pairsjust because we can't be togetherdoesn't mean belonging is all that rare.