photo by Nuno Antunes (unsplash)
Distance The days are turning into sunflower yellow And people are running/living/thriving But when the sunrays strike my windows I see the glass turning into ashened paper Here sun doesn't mean light In my land, people ask each other when do we feel okay And the only answer that echoes is soon enough. I turn towards God to ask answers But when misery present itself as a question God asks us to strive As if the only men who get to taste happiness are those Who haven't wondered long enough about the truth of this word. I keep praying to a voiceless God Ask him to send signs But when God is a lonely child Would it give away its favorite toys? In our land, it is forever night And moon doesn't borrow light Because self respect is still a notion here, I turn towards anything without a shadow But you don't see one here. I am hopelessly running towards a door less visible From a distance called superstition Colors are myth Does that make blindness the only way to look at things? I donot ask such questions But I still pray For my lover For he is stranded in our land Where every song is a pitch high Where every word sounds more like a vagabond's plea for directions My lover is a flower no more seen. His petals lie drooped And the only way to hold him is to avoid wind By wind I mean breaths My lover has fallen down the rabbit hole In an attempt to rescue me Does that make him brave Or me selfish? I still see him in my dreams though. Burried under the iceberg Cracked open only at my touch Does that make my embrace warm? I have no answers In our land nobody seeks one So I ask him to keep his eyes open Slowly one becomes adapted to loss of light, I say But he keeps his eyes closed And that's how he hopes in a land Where everyone walks without falling Talks without missing a vowel "I" And lays dormant to the world around In our land, lovers don't survive So I push him away And tell how world witnessed through darkness is still a world with colors He believes me And I keep believing in God Who sleeps an eternal sleep on a street nearby. Therapy A borderline mind, my therapist says other people have it worse. I try to make sense of this As I look at everything but her. There is a big mirror in her room I wonder if she asks people to meet themselves through that I think about how many people have cried looking at their reflections Will I be asked to do that as well? This, I think to myself, will make for a good poem I am unsure of my identity Now that doctors don't call me a depressive But a borderline "How do I process this", I ask my doctor And he says nothing but increases the dosage I remember my therapist yawning behind her mask Bad for therapy, I make note to myself Yawn, I swear is communicable Because now we both are yawning Uninteresed in each other This won't last long, I say to myself My doctor is yawning too Now I am looking at him. His plastic shield to protect himself of the virus or humans, I can't tell. I tell him that I wanted to be a doctor once "What changed?" He asks And I, trying to be funny, says," physics teacher" "Borderlines tend to do that, keep changing their minds" I laugh loudly My ambitions were the part of a disease My whole life was a disease developing and manifesting itself I wonder if doctors are taught to treat their patients as humans Or if we all are walking syndromes waiting for diagnosis Fifteen minutes up! He gives me the prescription slip And asks me to come again after two months I calculate how costly his yawns were And I decipher, 500 bucks each for three We leave and people/patients with their expecting eyes look at us How do I tell them That the magician inside that small cabin Is bored of us Or tired maybe Because the pigeons don't disappear there I keep walking along the corridor My head held down Trying to act unbothered by the pairs of lost eyes There is a lift in this hospital And nurses who talk politely A basement too for physiotherapy! I remind myself as I hold the feral cat in my arms And pat her head I know I am not going back I kiss the cat on her head As she stretches and yawns I laugh as she looks at me lazily And runs away I look briefly at the sky turning into yellow and red The lake in its glorious blue The house without windows And a dog that just scared cows and is walking proudly now I remember I have it all Little things that bring me back to life Wallflower I am a little late to the party Where people meet and drink and laugh too much I sometimes pretend Actually a lot of the times I have misinformations in my brain which I turn into poetry because then things seem acceptable I don't even know who Frank O' Hara is But his name has a musical tone to it So I perceive he must be like me Just like Freddie Mercury They have no use in this poem But now you know how I try to dodge names Or questions attached to them I have no real sense of directions Once I gave a man wrong directions in my college campus I left the college afterwards Do these dots connect? I believe sun can rise from any direction If you keep changing positions And pole star is a conspiracy theory Of the sailors who never wanted to reach back to the shore Aren't we all escaping somehow? I am little late to the party Where people smoke and get high I can't I have to take antidepressants with me wherever I go But to tell you the truth Benzos literally help you astral project Which ones, I won't tell I see people standing in a group Playing, some sharing their love for cinema While some singing old songs Beatles, Backstreet boys But I have no memory of ever hearing them Someone approaches me Asks me to join too But I have nothing to tell about myself besides my name I nod and smile Move slowly, recollecting all the books I have read, movies I have watched, rock bands I have listened to But they ask me something different Am I a poet? I didn't think about it while preparing myself I mutter a vague no They start talking to each other I am now moving towards where the food is I see him The boy from yesterday We nod as if in a world of handshakes, this is the new rebellion But I know he knows Me? I start munching down the French fries My heart beating fast What if I eat it before everyone else? Will they see me stand? Like a celebrity, will I lose the privacy of world in my head? Nobody's looking, I see Nobody's looking, I make it a note in my mind The party is losing the rythm Nobody talked about Frank O' Hara or Freddie Or Sylvia or Virginia I take their names as if I know them I don't But we all were at party somedays I remember I am the only sober one to drive But I don't know how to I never know how to start Conversations Friendships Or vehicles The party has now stopped People are staring at me And I am looking elsewhere. The boy from yesterday is now coming towards me Saying a vague hello I whisper instead Maybe he is shy Maybe I am too expecting The people in party are leaving For their homes Glittering buildings with dark alleys And I realise I have nowhere to go It had been my home all along. I was a guest sitting somewhere Who didn't know how to claim her own space Without curling into a fetus The party is over. And I realise the boy from yesterday is still sitting Looking at me I don't know what he is thinking Maybe he is wondering who Frank O' Hara is I say he's a poet Like you, he asks Like me, I answer Bio from another site: Bharti Bansal is a 22 year-old poet from Shimla, India. She has been published twice in books Sentient and Love As We Know It. She writes mainly on depression and other mental health issues and suffers from clinical depression herself. Bharti finds solace in stars and space and wants to pursue astronomy in the near future. She hopes to write a poetry book someday.