The I that I think I am 

are my intentions 

The I that you  think I am 

are my reactions

And when I realise

all about this

I AM  lost

 

A wise man once said

" I am not what I think I am , I am not what you think I am, I am what I think you think I am. "

The pause

April you scorch me 

My throat dries up 

Sitting in ac at 17

I still sweat

I think the gas is leaking 

I blame the plumber

The electrician 

The annual maintenence a waste

A pedestal fan directed towards me 

And my colleague who is also 48 

We both blaming everything we 

Can lay eyes on 

Something like a fever yes I agreed 

The others - yeah it's hot 

Getting hotter every year  

Being said every now and then 

But they do look cooler than us 

I call my aunt with doubts 

Yeah dear she says the climacteric often 

causes such havoc , 

Oh this is midlife crisis 

The next day I conveyed the same to my

dear colleague who always concurs to my views 

Haven't we been blaming poor April 

And every other possible 

While the fault lies in our timeline 

We decide upon the making 

Asparagus racemosus supplements 

Into our diet

hope it helps 

Written forFriday Writings #123: April

Impressionable minds

It has  always been her 

I was moulded by her thoughts 

And started life 

dreaming through  her eyes 

How impressionable a mind 

was mine like every  child's 

She showed me stars and

the promises of Christmas night 

she taught me that there was

something good and something not so 

saw her love towards life 

Her appreciation of art 

Her generosity and kindness of heart 

How considerate a human can be

How just a woman can be 

Yet I saw the other side of her too 

How she struggled with her life 

How she fought a futile strife 

For a woman of her strength 

Yet to be but subservient 

For so far a woman shall rise

On my impressionable mind

It has always been her 

Whether for better 

Whether for worse

My beloved and most 

Dearest  mother 

Written for Poets and Storytellers United Friday Writings #116:Lasting  Impressions

 Sometimes there is a deep quiet waiting for words, like waiting for rain in a parched land, like the exhaustion of a tired soul waiting for a gentle breeze to wash away it's pain, sometimes there is an emptiness that can't be explained.