Lazarus

A Waiting Game

Life’s a waiting game
Waiting for the bus
Waiting for the phone to ring
Waiting for the perfect someone

Some grow patient
Some grow tired
Some grow old
Some grow cynical

Some are lucky
Some not so much
Some get angry
Some give up

It makes you forget
Forget how to laugh
Forget how to love
Forget how to be tough

The best you can do is learn
Learn to cope
Learn to hope
Learn not to judge or hate

Life’s a waiting game
Sometimes all you can do is wait…

For Her

At a time of crisis
At a time like this
You feel like crying
You wish you wouldn’t
You feel like dying
You know you shouldn’t

I’m standing here
My lips are shaking
My legs are putty
Like the earth is quaking

I look to my mother
Her tears falling upon the dirt
I look to my father
Who stands strong, not saying a word

I hope you are happy now
Free of sickness and pain
An I hope one day
We will all be together as a family again

At a time of crisis
At a time like this
When death’s sweet lips
Have given you their final kiss

About 6 and a half year back I lost my elder sister. She was sick much of her life growing up and when I was in the 10th Grade she passed away, after a long time of fighting kidney failure. I regret every moment that I think of her that I never got to know her better. She was a rare and kind person, even if as a younger brother I couldn’t see that then. This poem, an amalgamation of the words I wrote then, and a reflection of what I remember now, are for her. My sister. Ayesha.

The Amber Moon

The amber moon on hallowed skies

Shines sweetly as a star

And lights the way for passers by

Travelling near and far

To lover and loner alike

She lights the path to the morrow

Each knowing the dawn will bring another day

Of joy as well as sorrow

The brilliant glow upon her face

Like a new born mother

Uniting black and white and brown

Under her sheen as brothers

She says not hello nor goodbye

Makes no promises, tells no lies

She watches quietly as trees do

Her reflection in the dreamer’s eye

I watch her quietly till she fades

Not once saying a word

I watch the amber moon above

As she watches the world

Genrelised

A place for everything and everything in its place
Everywhere I go I am marginalized, Compartmentalized, Categorized
I am judged, I am surveyed, I am estimated, I am measured.
I am put into a neat little corner of your mind, with all the others who look like me, dress like me.

It does not matter that I am no one thing.
I look different each year.
Dress differently when it suits me.
Talk differently when I feel like it.
Walk differently when I am happy, or I am sad.
My place has already been allotted.
My tag fixed. My category decided.

Why must we see people like life is some giant Record Store?
Every one of us existing in our little category, our own genre, our own classification.
Each artists and album arranged alphabetically in the shelf where they belong.
So tell me, am I Hard Rock? Am I Punk? Am I World Music?

I know what you’re all thinking to yourselves… The burgeoning question that is eating away at your mind, your very soul…

Why did he say Record Store? Who listens to records anymore?