There are times when one feels guilty of being a soulful soul. But even when he feels that, he is living in his heart. And he will, always. A poem written with sensitivity towards its antonym.
I think it is written on us by Him, that we be dishevelled, pricked, pruned, pared and shrunk,
In all our endeavours and failures, we are hunted upon like stags.
All pure, brown and beautiful, and pregnable.
They said it right –
We aren’t here for enriching ourselves.
Enrichment only troubles existence.
We try to live where everyone survives.
Conflict – conflict of trusts and bonds,
Of men and women, of sons and fathers.
There’s no room for understanding.
Why understand when all that’s in vain when end meets us.
Don’t dive deep they say.
They seem to know what lies below without even going there.
There’s all that the dreamers want – ideas, revolution and happiness and love,
But there’s also a lot of pain, scars and wounds that nay to heal.
Why suffer when there’s the other side.
Shallow and narrow, and lot of fish!
Let’s delink ourselves from this sensitive atrium.
It has no covering, you see!
Live in the brain, the skull’s too strong, my child.