Jyothy Sreedhar


Rarely these windows get opened.
Now it is such another time…
A small branch which my mother gave
Has grown up and spread along
A too old brick fencing wall.
Let the new freshness cover up the old dirts.
I can’t see the sun, the moon, the stars,
And the boundless sky.
It is covered up with too many greens-
Too useless greens.
Somewhere, little far, there is sea.
I can hear the ebbs of waves.
I can feel the murmur of my life.
Here, inside, it is too noisy.
Too disturbing with
Frustratingly, repeatedly, long senseless talks,
Even of myself.
And when I complete, I just sigh, hurry
To get back to my world of thoughts.
There is truth in it, only in it.
Rest are all feigning expressions.
Pretence- it makes up the world,
And forcefully, my life too…
For, they want me to pretend…
I become myself only when
I get the freedom and privacy
To feel my tears, to love my tears…
Hence, all I want is to escape
From these pretences, these nonsenses,
These ‘depressions’, ‘suppressions’ and ‘oppressions’.
I want to express as deep as I want to…
I want to cry as loud as I want to…
I want to be myself as long as I want to…