Diksha Johri
I am wounded.
Oh! yes! I am hurt.
I need my imagination to work
To create a catastrophe in head,
So that my soul should get cold,
Yet alive to quiver.
Oh! I am so much in pain
I have had so much of throbbing veins,
(I see it feeding on my thoughts also)
That I need an unreal event
To let the real pain ooze
So that I can cry.
But I fail to do both.
Oh! I fail to do everything.
I am not useless that’s I know,
What I am worth of, I wish I would know.
It is personal, it is external;
It is from all the ends of life.
I can’t see swings coiling round,
When untwisted, I realise the effect.
Then it’s too late to mourn on that.
It registers itself in my brain insane.
In those moments, I am practical.
But Oh God! I am your creation, I am human.
You created me in some ways.
I certainly don’t know the ways.
But I am definitely distorted:
Is your staff of humans or you are a human too
Or you let the human mould itself on the earth?
But you should have been more careful,
Since you have made me ice: strong, cold and nice.
And in the heat of salt water I am melting;
I am lying useless there.
I hope I am not the wrong delivery
Because I have hopes of being in purer water,
Serving my purpose, to know WHAT I AM.