From The Quill of Suranya

 I feel like writing a poem Yet no thoughts come to me. No rhyme or reason to share  No will to fill the empty pages. With ink and words. Yet I feel like writing a poem. Why? To be appreciated by people I barely know? To be criticised by those who matter? Or simply because I want to let everyone know I am still at it, The struggle and the journey  Not giving up on dreams just yet. I got what it takes, I am running in a race  With millions of others across the globe  Named, unnamed, anonymous, famous  To prove that I can write. But why? Here I am scribbling every day.  Procrastinating about the story in my head Which is yet to find the right plot. Here I am weary from nothing. Yet sleepless awake and alert  Anxious about how the words refuse to flow  In a night of writer's block. I don't stop even when I want to.  I can't stop, even when the thoughts tire me.  As if I have a world out there  Waiting for me to prove my worth. © S...

 I am born of fury,  I was born in bloodshed.  In some corner of the world  I reincarnate as Death.  No choosing, no right or wrong  No age or religion, or caste  I seek blood and I draw it  Causes mingled and morality at stake;  Battles won and lost in the struggle for those  Who is up in the high chairs yet  The sufferings are of those stampeded below  The weight of power. I am born from battles,  They created me to balance the good and bad. Yet when wars are fought,  It all becomes just stories. Versions of the truth,  Yours and theirs. False hopes and assurance  That wars are inevitably good  For humankind seeks the blood of its own  Pretending they are different.  You hope history doesn't repeat. You hope battles spare children and women Who becomes pawns in your ego games But nothing changes, does it? Era after era the stories repeat, And you pray harder every day. Irony is, you worship ...

 This is not the first time  We met at the crossroads of life.  I feel it as deeply as you do. I recognised your eyes.  As soon as they met mine,  There was a similar longing in them  To know, to touch, to feel, and hear.  As if we have been doing so for eras now  The familiarity of your scent  Which I otherwise can't recognise  The comfort in your breath  That gives me warmth in the snowy night. And then I watched you extend your hand to me  As if to say, hold on to me now,  I have waited long enough  Travelled through cities and time  To reach out to you. And I do, expecting the touch to be electric.  Instead, there is a sense of mundanity.  My heart skips a beat.  For I have never felt this familiarity in my life Our fingers entwine as we walk.  Silently through the busy street. To most onlookers, we are lovers,  To those who know, strangers,  To us, soulmates tied by an invisible...

 I put on your favourite dress,  Rouge and lipstick  Everything the way you like.  You say you are lucky to have me.  I put on my smile,  A laugh aloud or a giggle,  Speak of my opinion and ideas,  Asking for my rights.  And suddenly, you don't like me anymore.  Why? © Suranya

Memoirs of unwritten verses,  Waiting to find the words;  Feelings of unrequited longings  Couldn't be put on paper.  A dream trip you never took,  A half-done hobby or a book,  A few scribbles,  A friendship  Without a closure to comfort you? Do they matter at all? What troubles our nights? In the hollow emptiness of your mind  The sleepless soul asks in an echo, "What are we? Who are we?" An accumulation of particles  Forming a shape and mind,  Floating insignificantly in the universe  Loathing in superiority and pride. © Suranya

 All the inspiration for lovers  In distances and praises;  All the childhood stories  Of wonder and gazes.  Growing up hearing about  The Charka Buri spinning her wheel,  On the craters shining still.  And here we are to T minus five  Thudding heart and teary eyes.  A minute second, a historical event,  And a country finds its smile.  Who knew all the musings would cease  Into the reality of science. © Suranya

 They say it is destiny,  What happens under Your scrutiny. They say it is meant to be,  You puppet the strings of me. They say it is an order  Of universe, divine numbers  And laws in patterns sublime; But isn't the universe itself an absolute?  A lawless, timeless, endless attribute?  Isn't the earth in unorganised havoc?  Isn't it chaos that runs the cosmos? © Suranya