Who Will I?

Who Will I?

A niece insulted me yesterday. 
Nothing new. 
She does it often. 
Insult me, that is. 
And insult others.

No, she is not a bad person. 
On the contrary, quite loving. 
Or most often so.

So, why does she do that? 
Insult people she loves,
and wants love from?

I can think of only one reason. 
That she is either too certain
of what she believes in. 
Or too doubtful.

History is full of men
who killed others, not in numbers,
but in heaps and mounds and mountains. 
Only, because
they were too certain of themselves. 
Opposition had no right to exist,
as far as they could tell.

Yet others kill
so they can convince themselves
of the imaginary truth content of their lies. 
Lies, hidden, securely locked. 
In dark, deserted dungeons!

No one is immune. 
Mom used to get awfully angry. 
About anything and everything. 
At anyone and everyone. 
Why?  Was it merely in order to get results? 
Or in order to convince others? 
Herself?

Results do not require anger. 
Real anger only reduces positive outcome. 
Only excessive self-belief
and excessive self-doubt demand that. 
Truth and results
merely need evidence and gentle nudges.

Newton, Einstein and Darwin
never needed armies - standing or cyber. 
Nor anger.

But Modi needs it. 
As does my barbie-doll niece. 
What do we do
with these selfers: Believers and Doubters? 
How to make them see
that all they need is a commitment to truth,
even when inconvenient, uncomfortable.

But truth loses
when the option is a simple, comforting one:
anger!

I have no solution for their problem. 

Having lived a life-time with angry, difficult persons. 
Having loved them. 
Having fallen in love with them. 
Having always struggled
with their angry irritating intransigence. 
Having always lost. 

Is my niece
destined to live a life full of,
and spreading pain? 
All because she is unwilling to examine her beliefs?

Or, all because
I always gave up? 
With Mom? 
With the love of my life? 
With my beautiful little princess?

Is it them? 
Or is it me? 
They know not, thus are innocent of wrongdoing. 
I know, but have never had the courage, nor perseverance.

Who will the posterity find the real culprit? 
More importantly, who will I?

-

Questions, Questions!

Questions, Questions!

Did I lose you
because I did not really believe
you to be mine?

Have I never had anyone,
REALLY MINE,
because I never believed someone
could be really mine?
Really anyone's?

Should I have taken you
for granted?
Abused you?
Should I have been painful and difficult,
like all those who I felt I belonged to?

Can we belong only there,
where we are not given any choice?

Can we belong only there,
where we are dominated,
or dominate?

Where we have no rights,
or all the rights?

Is liberty
all a pile of manure?
Are we only of the jungle, or savanna, still?

Can we never be equal
and still belong to each-other?

Or will you always keep finding
all possible excuses to deny
what you feel for me?

Will the brain-washing
that our society subjected us to,
always count so much for you,
that you will never create
an inviolable space for me within you?

Or come live within mine?

Will our connection wither
and die as do countless others,
simply because the twain are not certain?

Or is it that we really do have
an unbridgeable gap between us?

But then,
have you seen any gap,
that can never be bridged,
despite the belief of men
that the bridge is never too far?

Have I lost you because I lost hope?

Is it heroic to hope and act,
despite reality?

Or is it too stupid
to hope that counter-real reality
is creatable?

That it takes mere belief to do so?

Can you ever become mine
merely because I am yours
and want you to be mine?

Desperately?

Still?

And then,
do I have to be only The One?

Can you have
an undestroyable space within you
for those other than The One,
keeping the sanctum of The One
sacrosanct?

Can I accept being one
other than The One?

Do we create a connection
between us
only within the norms
set by the society and the movies?

Or can we create a new reality?

Do we even care?
Do you even care?
Do I even care?

-

Why Poetry?

Why Poetry?

Why do I write?
When do I write?

Prose
when I want to make my audience
understand my point.
Poetry
when I want to,
but know that I cannot
make my audience understand my point.
Nor get them
to give a damn about it.

Prose
gets me results.
Poetry
stops me from killing myself.

I often wish
that I did not write poetry.

-

A Question

A Question

Fret not.  My presence in your life
is now no longer
than that of a Mayfly in summer. 
You will soon find me a bother. 
And value me, as one does a vestigial organ.

Every man thinks through his penis. 
It is not given you to not be a man. 
You will too. 
No, you do too.

No wonder
Newton found celibacy
his greatest achievement.  Move over
gravity, optics, mechanics, calculus.

You are not,
and I am not
Newton.  We go our ways
and become irrelevant to each-other.

You have your life ahead of you.

While I am left wondering
why, precisely,
must I continue existing.

-

I Asked

I Asked

It was I who asked you
to let me go, if you could not
love me.

I,
of course, knew you
could not.

What do I get for this
murder/suicide/martyrdom?

-

Obituary

Obituary

This is not self-pity.
Nor, self-hatred.
This is self-grief.

I grieve the end
of my unrequited love.

Which was the sum total
of my Self.

With you goes,
not just my love,
but the entirety
of my being, my existence.
I grieve for myself.
For my own passing.

-

Deserving Disservice

Deserving Disservice

You
are a difficult person.
And you know that.

I am easy.
And I know that.

You demand service.  Always.
I serve.  Always.

I am schooled
in the necessary art of masochism. 
And sadism comes
naturally to you.

I have no clue
how you thought
that we are not
made for each-other. 

Go,
perhaps there will be many
who will give you the love you deserve.

I do not
even deserve difficulty!

-

Grieve/Celebrate

Grieve/Celebrate

I am invited
to a sumptuous dinner.
I eat well. 
It seems
that I enjoyed my dinner.  To others. 
For I am good at pretense.

Only I know that
without you, I can enjoy
no dinner. 

Without me,
do you? 

Good for you. 

My remaining years
are too few
to not grieve you. 
Yours, too many,
to.

Go,
celebrate.

-

Without You

Without You

Without you
life has no meaning.
So is it good
that you went early. 
Or bad?

-

You Won

You Won

You pushed.
I pulled.

You won.

Goodbye.

-

Empty ...Yet Again

Empty     ...Yet Again

Another day draws to an end.
And the Universe yawns, once again.
At my stupidity.

Must I always wish
to fill my system with passing comets?
A short burst of energy, emotion, engagement,
enjoyment?

But, as ever,
the ethereal enchantment
goes expeditiously extinct.
Again, no more.
The devotee is destitute, dead.
Again, no more.
The love is lost.
Again, no more.

I lose, again, as always.
Alone, again, as always.
Empty, again, as always.

Left again, alone, with my tears,
and my words.  My empty words.
Rumi's Shams has again set.
The light has again gone out.
All that remains is the twilight, the promise of the darkness to come.
The demons.  The beasts.  The vampires. The loneliness.

Yuck...
Who cares anymore.
Not even I.
I am stupid.
I must pay the price. 

When will I ever learn?
Humen and I are not meant to be.
I rue the passing of my comet.
But then, perhaps,
I am no star.
Or perhaps am, but with a tail, myself.
Capable only of wandering.
Destined to wowing systems for a brief interlude,
between their silent, morose, meaningless existences.
And then, to leave.
Trail blazing.
Or, tail flailing.

Or else, I am,
but a line.
Either,
I have no intersection
with another.
Or if I do,
it is meant to be a brief meeting.
And that, to only send us away.
Farther.  And farther, from each-other.

A line,
unlike any other two-dimensional existence,
I can hold nothing within me.
And if I do,
ever so ephemerally,
I am soon empty.
Yet again.

I am a line.
Separated again.
Empty again.
Yet, a line,
always, infinite.
At both,
non-ends!

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