poetry

I Am Free

‘The sky’s wide with possibilities,’
Is not a line you sold to me.

Always doubting my capabilities.
Finding humor in their plausibility.

The girl you knew
internalized that doubt.
Never allowing her
true self to come out.

Stuck in the box you made.
Dreaming of a way to break out.

I drove myself into those corners,
Hitting the same walls.
Carefully maintaining the boundaries you made.

Until the edges began to tear
And the box wore thin.

A sliver of light
beckoned me
to follow it out.

I took a chance
And peaked out.

The first time my voice came out.
No longer drowned out by others doubts.

The world was more than I was being sold.

I took a chance
And my voice began to emerge.

A dormant sea
of dreams and epiphanies
overcame me.

I bathed in their light
And re-emerged
With the most precious gift-
the discovery of self.

Self-love.
Self-belief.
Self-respect.

The girl I lost
Returned to me.

I am free.

Advertisement
poetry

A dreamer’s declaration

Once the mind traversed the globe longing for places unknown. Youth held so much wonder between the pen and the page, the brush and the canvas.

I rewrote the playwrights’ wishes and inserted my own. I housed myself in imaginary realms. The penultimate escape against life’s transgressions. All those sticky situations unwound.

The pen and the page, the brush and the canvas–my life support.

Until the outside became too much. When the real and the imagined clashed, the wonder faded. Slowly giving way to depressive waves, crashing under other’s expectations. Standards of self and success, designed to count you out.

The pen and the page, the brush and the canvas–lost.

I became a wanderer blind to her forgotten lifeline. When you pursue concentric circles, you inevitably remain on the same path. The truth alludes you while it rests in a forgotten plane.

The plethora of personas I clung to led not to respite. I fought back dreams for more suitable pursuits.

The degree and the job, the pay and the promotion.

For what are dreams without profits? Mere distractions hindering capitalist quests.

The degree and the job, the pay and the promotion.

A mantra birthing my ambition to stay relevant, complicit and affluent.

Mindfulness.
Self-help.
Heal me.

The wealth race has depleted me.

S l o w d o w n.

Inhale.
Exhale.

Through the hustle and bustle, I found a forgotten thing.

Renaissance–.
Resistance.

I’m no longer complicit in this trope.

The pen and the page, the brush and the canvas–
a trust once broken,
Renewed.

The dreams resurge.

The pen and the page, the brush and the canvas–
weapons against the misery society sells.

A voice of my own–
Priceless.

Those old personas–
Deceptive,
Unfulfilling.

The pen and the page, the brush and the canvas.

A dreamer’s plea
For serenity.

The pen and the page, the brush and the canvas.

Your standards
No longer
Touch me.