Pellets They Throw

They question when you do good,
Doubting the intention with which you stood;
The lamp you were holding to show light,
Is mistaken as devastating missile.

The dirt in your hands,
That was clinging while cleaning;
Is scornfully seen as,
Maligned interests of ruining.

Every step forward you take,
Threatens them;
And, pellets they throw,
To keep you away.

Insecure hearts like these,
Should know, humans are no one's property;
You might put tags to claim your rights,
But, love and care is beyond those boundaries.

Vulnerability

It was lying dead on the road;
Crushed and crumpled,
All worn and torn.
Was it chosen and plucked,
Only after a while, to be thrown?

It was a saga of love and untiring devotion;
To be plucked to spread joy and warmth;
To be stripped off to decorate homes;
To be a part of the bouquet to send good wishes,
For happiness, health and forever well-being.
Nothing less, but the best it was;
Personification of "love",
Was no one else's task;
And that was the reason,
For the terrible fate it saw.

I picked up the remains of,
Whatever was left;
The fragrance now,
Being forced to dirt and dust.


I passed by a plant,
No more than a thin trunk;
Once the flowery abode,
Was now nude and bare.

What was still left,
After the ravaging theft,
Was the abundance of thorns.
They stood haughtily,
Mocking the gentility;
Pricking any hand,
That threatened their stability.
The sharp stinginess,
And personification of "hate",
Was what kept them,
Safe from harm and hurt.


Stark contrast it was,
Flowers - strewed apart,
Thorns - no one dared to touch.
The only question it raised,
Why is love more vulnerable than hate?

The Dreadful Winter

I sit at the window,
Staring at the vast blue sky,
Sipping my hot coffee,
As the cold breeze blows by.

The morning mist,
Dew drops on the leaves,
The fog and clouds,
Creating a hazy shroud.

The chill that runs
Down the spine,
And the shivering
That makes you whine.

Snow flakes
Falling all around,
Like metal balls
Bombarding the ground.

Campfires being lit,
To get warmth and heat.
But the question
I ask is,
Does it suffice?
Does the campfire
Really suffice?

What about
The cold hearts,
The frozen blood,
The pale faces
Devoid of love?

When would those melt,
When would this cold end,
When would winter fade away,
Summer of love find its way,
And spread the warmth of
Care and affection
In a gentle tender way.

Books to Life

In one of those inspiring classes at school,

Delving into the antonyms,

Amongst the hundreds that I learnt;

One was the pair

Love and Hatred,

And I believed it was true.

Today while sitting all by myself,

Reflecting over the essence of relations

I just had a doubt,

How can hatred be the opposite of love?

Love is a pious bond,

That makes someone really special,

You trust him,

Pour your heart out to him,

Hold his hand and

Help him cross all boundaries

Until he reaches the sacred place - your heart

And touches your soul.

It is true that

There are dark times,

When that special someone

Does not like this new place.

The silken threads of your love

Are mistaken as shackles

Which are hammered many a times

As he strives to break away.

Knowingly or unknowingly,

He hurts you in this act.

Even if this happens and

You are hurt,

Your heart is bleeding,

Sustaining your love

Has no meaning.

Still

You know...
However hard you try
However far you go;

You can only stop loving him,

But can never start hating him.

I wonder,

It took me all these years to figure out,

How meanings change from books to life.