Knuckle to knuckle she stands
Fists pressed against each other,
Elbows digging into her sides –
A bundle of nerves, as she twists around her waist.
She shrugs her shoulders, wrings her arms –
Trying to lose the butterflies.
She stares intently, at that which only she can see.
She inhales deeply as it dawns on her,
That all the time she toiled away,
Has condensed into this solitary moment.
As the spotlight shines, she must be sublime.
Time ticks mathematically. But, do we experience time with such rigidity? Here is a short poem about the difference between the clock and how we experience time.
Incomplete thought fragments
Strung together unimaginatively
With neither heart nor mind
This is the make-up of modern poetry –
Muddled, borrowed creativity
I am the Queen of Tragedies,
Henceforth I declare:
I have been wronged at every turn in my life
Yet, I never rendered any harm to a single soul.
I am incapable of sins and wrongs
Anyone who thinks otherwise is a sinner.
I shall judge the world around me,
Punish anyone who disagrees with me,
Absolve them —
From their hearts they will acknowledge my Purity.
Wouldn’t life be so much easier if we knew who we are and what we wanted from life? Here is a poem about the exultation of self-discovery.