Who am I...?

Who am I to call her perfect?
To place that burden upon her shoulders.
To give her the idea that she isn’t just enough, she’s too much.
She is perfect to me, and if she changed,
I wouldn’t call her any less perfect.

But why?
Why do I confine her to that title?
A title everyone dreams of receiving,
not understanding
it becomes a burden.
A title that everyone is skeptical of,
thinking no one
is truly perfect.
But society beats that into us like we are a drum and they are the drummer.
Everyone hates society.
It’s funny;
we all hate the standards, but we follow them, never breaking them down.

I call her perfect,
not because she fits the socially acceptable mold,
but because
she isn’t part of that mold.
She thinks and feels and does things differently and breaks the unspoken rules of society.
She’s perfect because she cares,
she smiles,
she cries,
she hurts,
she loves,
she laughs,
she is.
She is.
She is alive and new and herself,
and to me, that makes her perfect.

But I don’t wish to label her such a difficult and treacherous title to keep;
I wish to help her feel okay.
Never to tear her down,
but build her up.
Help empower her,
because she’s perfect.

A poets vault

There’s a poets vault,
In it a million rhymes and charms,
Only the poets they fault,
Then perish with legs and arms.
But maybe little of a legend lies,
Though seek with open eyes.

Worthy writers do search,
On the only vault they hope,
The words of ease can perch,
And in a poets darkness grope.
To reach and smash book shelves,
But never true feelings they delve.

The amateur poet pens down,
Unleashing the words he writes,
But inspired by the suns crown,
His rhymes and charms take flight.
Digging deep and deeper still,
Yet just poems on a window sill.

हम भी वापस जाएँगे

आबादी से दूर,
घने सन्नाटे में,
निर्जन वन के पीछे वाली,
ऊँची एक पहाड़ी पर,
एक सुनहरी सी गौरैया,
अपने पंखों को फैलाकर,
गुमसुम बैठी सोच रही थी,

कल फिर मैं उड़ जाऊँगी,
पार करूँगी इस जंगल को.
वहाँ दूर जो महके जल की,
शीतल एक तलैया है,
उसका थोड़ा पानी पीकर,
पश्चिम को मुड़ जाऊँगी,
फिर वापस ना आऊँगी,
लेकिन पर्वत यहीं रहेगा,

मेरे सारे संगी साथी,
पत्ते शाखें और गिलहरी,
मिट्टी की यह सोंधी खुशबू,
छोड़ जाऊँगी अपने पीछे ....,
क्यों न इस ऊँचे पर्वत को,
अपने साथ उड़ा ले जाऊँ।
और चोंच में मिट्टी भरकर,
थोड़ी दूर उड़ी फिर वापस,
आ टीले पर बैठ गई .....।

हम भी उड़ने की चाहत में,
कितना कुछ तज आए हैं,
यादों की मिट्टी से आखिर,
कब तक दिल बहलाएँगे,
वह दिन आएगा जब वापस,
फिर पर्वत को जाएँगे,
आबादी से दूर,
घने सन्नाटे में।

How Many..???

How many rumors and warnings until it all begins

How many moments of unease until the nation sins

How many regular meals until each family runs low on food
How many warming fires until their homes are as cold as their mood

How many alarming sirens until hope is hopelessly shaken
How many mothers' cries until their sons are not taken

How many lonely children until their fathers don't say Good-Bye
How many brave young men until no one has to willingly die

How many mourning families until someone's life is persevered
How many near-death incidents until rest is deserved

How many dark invasions until all the cities are torn down
How many stabs of pain until the killer's smile becomes a frown

How many bloody fields until the fighting is all done
How many gruesome battles until the end has begun

How many soldiers' deaths until a white flag is risen
How many shouts of protest until someone will listen

How many bombs thrown until the hatred will decease
How many more days of war until we are at peace.