Well, I never did believe in happiness
But sometimes I like to dream
You know, I prefer to lead a quiet life
But sometimes I like to scream
It’s maddening
How life is a funny little accident
How we like to believe we are in control
That we know everything there is to know
We are infact slaves to our bodies and emotions
These thoughts run through my head
All the time
ALL. THE. TIME.
I can’t stop them
I can help myself but I won’t
Somebody help me help myself
I can picture the future
It’s grim, it’s grim
I can imagine the end
It’s peaceful
It’s going to be a bumpy ride
With everyone ending up in different destinations
Yet looking down upon those who finished behind
And being looked down upon by the rest
There’s no need for an answer
For there’s just no question
Hanging itself in the air
Seeking its soulmate
I will be here on my own
Sleeping in the soft green grass
With the silver moon overhead
And the cold winds blowing from the north
Chilling me to the bones
Nothing on my mind
Nothing on my skin
Except ants looking for something to eat
Something to bite
Author: Frank Solanki
Making the world a better place one poem at a time.
Circus
It may seem like a benign word
But it isn’t
Everything about this word is wrong
It’s a complete mess of a word
Its pronunciation has nothing to do with its spelling
Take the first C
It makes an S sound
Now take the second C
It makes a K sound
Why would someone do that?
Why would anybody use the same letter
To make two different sounds in the same word?
I strongly believe that this word was created
By the native speakers
To make life difficult for others
And have a derisive laugh along the way
The italian, portuguese and spanish word for it has two Cs too (circo)
And, you guessed it, both sound different
The dutch and latin use the same word as English does
At least the french have the decency
To use only one C in the word (cirque)
While the german word (zirkus)
And the norwegian word (sirkus) contain no C
And is pronounced just the way it is spelt
Is it any wonder that when my life is frenetic
Disorganised, messy, disturbing,
Farcical and comical
With just the right amount of chaos
Suitable for public entertainment
I refer to it as a …
When She Steps In Through The Door
Without her around
The house is grim, dark and lonely
Completely silent save for only
The heavy breaths emanating from my chest
It’s like the cold hands of sorrow
With no choice but to borrow
Desolation on some wicked curse’s behest
Have come to settle in this nest
When she steps in through the door
A surge of light carrying madness
Bursts and drives away the sadness
Filling the house with smiles, laughter and song
What was once a haunted dome
Has transformed into a lovely home
With flowers of joy planted where they belong
Nothing then could ever go wrong
When You Realise Your Mortality
When we realise that we
Have little time left on this planet
We drop whatever we were doing
And begin to do the things
That mean the most to us
We take up old hobbies
We dig up buried passions
We unlock the hidden dreams
We start living
But we always knew that life is brief
That our hearts beat for nothing more
Than a cameo
In this supposedly eternal cycle
From adolescence
We are aware of Death
And her ghastly inescapable odour
Yet we go on breathing as if
We are going to be here forever
We take minutes and hours for granted
Days go by
Years pass us
And none of that time is utilised
In doing what makes us happy
When the health breaks down
When coughing becomes second nature
When aches and sprains are allowed to reside in your body rent-free
That’s when we understand life’s worth
But usually it is too late by then
The vitality has faded
The lungs are clogged
The heart pumps inefficiently
Our illusion of youth shatters
Our veins map our history on our skins
Our throat is full of regrets
That is why I wrote this poem
To remind myself of my mortality
To remind myself that I could live differently
That I could be happier and healthier
If I took a little time out every day
To live
I would feel alive
I am going to print this poem
Make multiple copies of it
And pin it everywhere around the house
If it helps me save even a minute of my life
Then this poem has done its job
That is why I published this poem here
To remind you that Death
Is probably around the corner
Waiting to strike you with her cold hands
No, don’t be scared
It’s okay to feel grim at first
It’s okay if you hate me for it
It’s okay
It really is
Use that energy to climb out of the dark cave
And step into the light
You will be blinded at first
But soon you will begin to see the beauty
Dazzling at every blink; so
Break the shackles of your soul
And live
Love Is A Cat
My Heart Is A Guitar
Which you cradle
In your hand
When you pull
The strings with
Your soft fingers
The melody fills
The atmosphere
Gently the music
Ignites the romance
Within your soul
Bringing out the
Hidden affections
That you no longer
Can control
The sun rises
The sun sets
We care not for
Its irresolution
When we become
Complete and one
We revel in our
Magnificence
If AI Had Written This Poem
Then it would have had a better shape
With a metaphor thrown in
For a subtle yet engaging effect
If AI had written this poem
Then it would have had a grander theme
Plus a consistent rhyme scheme
If AI had written this poem
I would have saved my hours
And squandered them anyway
On stuff that didn’t matter at all
If AI had written this poem
It would have pleased the eye
A figure of speech used properly
Would have even pleased the ear
If AI had written this poem
Then it would have got more likes
It would have reached a celeb’s phone
Who would have taken my blog to new heights
If AI had written this poem
If only AI had written this poem
Pressure Cookers
Wouldn’t it be nice
To puncture a hole
In our skins
From time to time
To allow the sadness
Building inside us
To pass?
It would be amazing, wouldn’t it
If a small gap could let out
Anger, grief, anxiety, depression
Slowly over the years?
It is easy to fill
The empty spaces
Of our hearts
With scraps of
Negativity
It is easy to allow ourselves
To become pressure cookers
Without truly understanding
How or why or when
Over the years we find ourselves
In a different form, space and mind
We evolve not from love but
From these scraps that keep
Piling up inside us like a mountain;
A volcano ready to erupt
If only we could blow it off easily
If only we could discharge it
As soon as it finds a way into
The depths of our hearts
We wouldn’t be then products
Of sadness but rather products of love
Love Is A Dishevelled House
Where smelly socks sit on the bed
On the floor’s an intricate trail
Of wrappers and crumbs of bread
Wet towels lie on the ebony couch
Flies zip around the sordid walls
On the formerly white pillow covers
Food stains establish their stalls
Red ants greet you in the morning
Wish you the best with a sting
They sit down on the dinner table
Next to you in the evening
Fresh air is on a suicide mission
When it happens to infiltrate
The interiors of the house only
To gasp, choke and suffocate
You tidy your hair with your hand
When you fail to locate your comb
You look around and heave a sigh
For the place you declare a home
Despite the drudgery and filth you
Know there is no exit door
If there was one, you’d likely axe it
This is all you want and more
45,000
45,000
Can pay your fees
45,000
Can fulfil your dreams
45,000
To live with ease
45,000
Oh God please
45,000
Lend me a loan
45,000
Worth more than my home
45,000
To beg or steal
45,000
Willing to kill
45,000
Don’t you cry
45,000
Mummy will try
45,000
I’ll sell my soul
45,000
I love you so
45,000
To pay your fees
45,000
Oh what is this?
45,000
For a road accident
45,000
This life be damned
Frank Solanki 