This heart of mine,
knows a different kind of hurt,
It cries silently as it tumbles down the stack of expectations,
Its like a pot made of mud, all cracked, but still intact,
The one with it’s paint dried up,
And it wishes to be crumbled down to pieces.
Big and small,
Just to be one again.
And just like how blooming flowers welt,
Under the scorching sun,
Just a touch away from falling apart,
My heart stands there,
Waiting to fall down and disintegrate,
Waiting to fall apart,
Like it has been aware of its fate,
Its fate and my actions.
My heart dwells in a universe that I once imagined,
It’s lives there’s now,
It cannot distinguish between the real universe and the one I created,
It doesn’t know that the one who I am is different from the one who I desire to be,
That I am not bold and wise,
And that I do get scared and sometimes make bad decisions,
It stays aloof on summer nights,
When it comes to the acute realization,
Of the existence of that thin line drawn between the universes,
And when it does, it sits on that line,
Wondering where to go,
What to do?
It contemplates and regrets.
And then sits in despair.
My heart is unaware of the fact that it’s not alone,
That there are other hearts too sitting along the line,
Sometimes I wish that someday,
When there will be one too many hearts sitting next to my own heart,
In despair and in the state contemplation,
maybe my heart will also realize that it’s not alone,
And maybe that day,
My heart won’t be hurt anymore.
– Shweta Chavan