On Love – I

Before anyone faints or cries or laughs their asses so hard that they die (RIP),

this (one written after many a month!) poem

partially influenced by another,

which was suggested by my friend,

the hopeless romantic, forever. 

[A Poem about Love]

I am undoubtedly the wrong person to talk about love.

To date, I do not know if what I fell into,

was love,

or a reminder from above.

A reminder,

to be nice,

to be kind,

or merely to appreciate,

the ones I had left behind.

For those I may have not loved,

all I say is sorry.

You chose wrong, you must agree.

For I am not the one you sought

nor the one you thought I was.

They say it is better,

for those who loved and lost,

than never to have loved at all.

I still cannot answer that, for I may not have loved at all.

Or like most of you out there,

loved, yet could not share.

For many a reason,

well guarded and cautioned,

I opted for a vow of silence

and loved in his absence.

“Love”, rings in one’s tone,

and perhaps has a different ring to its own.

But till it rings,

and the famed angels sing,

love is,

what it is.

On the Letters we did not write

On the Letters we did not write
and the cards we did not post, 
the people we did not call,
the delayed birthday presents we did not send.

I mean,
I was about to mail that letter,
call that aunt and see how she is doing,
wish that friend from college on her birthday.

Mum called just as I had sat down to write the letter,
“laundry,” she said from downstairs.
Boss decided on an urgent meeting,
just when you had located your aunt’s number
hidden in an age-old address book.
As for your friend’s birthday,
it was a Friday and we all know what goes down on Fridays.

I guess that’s normal.
We all forget.
The planners don’t help.
The scheduler on your phone doesn’t help.
The multiple Google Calendar reminders didn’t seem to do its job either.
We forget,
and we try to tell ourselves that it’s okay,


My Many Valentines 

This Series of posts was a result of random musings that occurred while writing an exam. Theme-ing it in accordance with the supposedly-romantic celebrations the coming week. 

“How’s your boy?”

“He is no longer mine.”

And that was that.


I cleaned up my souvenir box last week. It was about time I made room for the new Valentines.


“Sucks being a chick. We gotta look pretty all the time.”


“For girls like us, he has to be above twenty-eight.”

“At this rate I wouldn’t even mind getting married to a divorced guy much much older.”

“Divorcees are pretty ‘good’ I’ve heard.”


As I counted my change, he came behind me and said, “King lights. Classic mild.”


“He is thirty-something! He should be the older, more-mature one.”

“Trust me. He never was.”

“Sigh. I have lost all hope in men-kind. Maybe I should attempt to rediscover the bisexual in me.”


The Journal

I like writing in my journal. It helps me keep track of my life over the years despite the intervals being utterly irregular. It helps me recollect my memories, learn from my mistakes, pat myself on the back occasionally over a few achievements. It makes me laugh, cry or even crib when reading certain entries. I began maintaining a journal since I was eleven solely based on my passion to write.


She liked to write. She thought that she was good at it. Dumb headed twat. Why did she not realise her true potential? Why did she not realise that she cannot write and what people say about her writing is a whole load of horse shit? After all, what became of that seventy odd poems of hers? Flushed down the toilet eh?


As a result of my like for writing, which over a period of time grew to love, I decided to make a career out of it. A journalist. Not as prestigious as it may sound: severely underpaid and awfully overworked. But Kitty, life was good. I enjoyed what I  did so much that that the little smoke-filled wooden box became home. Life was indeed good. I had never been happier.


She always wanted to write about lifestyle, maybe a little on fashion – despite her minuscule knowledge on the subject and unforgivable fashion faux pas –  as opposed to heavy-weight articles that completely changed her “style” of writing. But then again, who said that she could write? Wasn’t that a self-made, self-believed delusion?


Her passion for writing made her a journalist. For a while at least, before she  succumbed once more to the pressures of education and academics. She knew that she is not a “book-person”. She apparently considered herself, “street-smart”. Between you and I Kitty, she was neither. She was just dumb.


Kitty, today I am not myself. I feel dyslexic.


The Power of Music: Resonance

The resonance makes all present do

As they feel. The Art that is true

Has preached and instilled in me

Such virtues. Indebted to them is me.


The resonance makes some gaze in to

The distant. Dream of what I no not.

Others engage in activities they call

Their own. Some in slumber.


Maketh it go by music I tried.

Yet in vain lest I should’ve known.

‘Tis the Art that determined;

Not one’s own appraisals.


The resonance drives some down

A path to reality. The others down

What is beautiful, serene and ever

Tranquil. Some reside in slumber.


The resonance bring peace of mind

To some. The others attempt at

Portraying pieces of their minds

To others. Alas. The motive lost.


October 01, 2010


The Girl in the Orange House

The girl who lived in the orange house

had everything and more that she could ask for.

Or so she thought.

Most of her life was lived in speculation

and what was required by others.

What suited others best suited her.

Others’ happiness was equivalent to hers.

Came one day when she paid attention to herself.

Alas, the moment the decision was made,

she knew she had done wrong.

I knew I had failed once more.

I knew I had done wrong all over again.

I knew I should’ve not shown the way.

I am the girl in the orange house.

By Senashia Ekanayake (1755h | April 4 2010)