Attempt.

My kid brother tried to motivate me by demotivating last night. I read out one of my verses and paused proudly to get a reaction. I forgot I was expecting this of an other Virgo. I soon realised what I'd put myself into when he said.

I need
To go
To my room
And sleep.

For those of you who had not understood the satire, He was hinting at my so called poetry that was actually sentences chopped into several segments. "It is wonderful to have a supportive family. Is'nt it?" - to quote Timon's the meerkat's mom form Lion king 1 1/2. LOL.

Another quick complaint he had about the blog before he left to his room was that my writings are loaded with estrogen. He wanted me to write something like a journalist.

Dejected, I made a mental browse of thoughts in my mind. Every thing seemed to be so "me". So in the lines of the style I am used to write in. I thought about a blog that might sound different form my actual tone of writing and thinking. Nope, it doesn't work that way. I should probably try and attempt something more than writing my usual blah-blah.


I should write about Hillary and Obama I thought. My knowledge of politics - Zilch.


May be it should be about going green? I am not an environmentalist though I am pretty passionate about recycling stuff and placing food waste in the green-waste container.

Or should it be a heavy piece on the opression of women? I am not a feminist either.


Oh, may be a fashion blog about the NY fashion show or a tutorial to create smoky-eye like on of those blogs my cyber friend Tiffany writes. Who am I kidding??


So I swallow the travesty, and go on to write in my original style with my limited vocabulary. And before the spasm of creativity to write poetry dies out, I should make another medicore attempt of chopping sentences and writing about a powerful image that comes to mind.


Chubby face
veiling the traces of womanhood
Awkward posture -
An indifference.
The world around
Looking like a stranger perhaps,
That she would not care about.
Quintessential presentation
Of a life toiling.
An adolscence prematurely
Aging, to survive.

Clad in a neon yellow
And fuschia Salwar kameez
She looks at me like I am
A thing.
A chair, a table or may be a flower vase
That was right before her eyes all along.
My lips curve in a greeting.
She looks at me the same look
And the smile, as inconspicuous as her
Childhood fades before it is born.

Rough hands
Calloused feet
Bright pair of eyes
That ceased to dream.

Nonchalance personified
She walks around doing her chores
A fetus that was
wailing in its mother's womb
Less than a score ago.

Her disinterest in the world
Like that of a monk's
Strikes me
As a tear from my eye
fades before it is born
Like her childhood.