Man’s god, God’s man

God these days is as confused as we are.
Riots are raging in His name, but He is losing his children on both sides.
He doesn't feel the glory in victory anymore—
For this is not right against wrong, but His name used in fight.

God didn’t create borders, so He doesn't understand them.
He finds it ridiculous that the side that kills the most wins.
The world was one big country—His gift to mankind.
He questions why children need to be orphaned, and homes need to be burnt, for kings’ discordant minds.

God walks through war-torn streets—He finds the blood identical in hue.
He realizes that humans still cry the same color, in spite of opposing views.
He remembers giving humans a beautiful mind, capable of wonders true.
But when they wield it for destruction and chaos, He doesn't know what to do.

God doesn't understand why His name is being dragged into a fight He didn’t start.
The god of man’s making—with all its hate and might—looks a lot more like the devil to Him than light.
Sometimes, God wishes that people didn’t give Him a name, or even believe in Him anymore—
It seems to Him that’s what it takes to keep His children safe, shielded from pain.

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Does it make you and i kin?
If the grasp of understanding we cannot win .
My king doesn’t get along with your’s-
their vengeance we dread .
They sit safely in their castles fuelled with spite-
and our children are orphaned instead.

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Relationship /noun/ :
Losing yourself a little in their world, while walking the tight rope of holding on to your individuality.

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Patience, dear one;
I'm breaking down my walls,
And It's taking all that I have.
I'm coming over. I promise-
Inching closer, day by day,
Even if it doesn't look that way today.
I promise. I'm on my way.
Stay...

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They found love through a phone screen.

She could think and type carefully , without worrying about fumbling and stumbling over too many words, from so many emotions flooding her brain all at once.

And he, he could simply send a heart-eye emoji when he was falling more in love with her, or tell her that he loved her, randomly, without worrying about looking like an idiot - because you see,she always made him blush.

Just when it was uncool to use your phones so much, they thanked all the gods for the invention. Now two awkward people could actually break the ice.

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disappearing into a world where space does not exist.

I sit on the couch and you, though miles away, sit right there, next to me.

You text me, and I leave my physical form.
Our minds do the talking.

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A forbidden thought under the veil of silence ,when you are falling in love with somebody.
A feeling so profound, so real- its almost wrong to say it out loud-
What if under the societal norms, thoughts like these are not allowed.
Because sometimes, its safe to keep them hidden- the world may not understand;
what if they weigh your thoughts in their fists by holding on so tight, that they slip away, unfelt, like little grains of sand..

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I hear people talking in my living room about how abrupt death can be.
One second you are breathing, and the other, you vanish into thin air.

Just beyond their chatter and silhouette, is the bookshelf-
Pages and pages of ideas painstakingly written,
edited and published with great care.

They whisper into my ears , from beyond their graves,
every night, just before I surrender to bed.

If death is a final disappearing act , by simply writing at their desks,
these men and women have, against this end, a mutiny led.

For defying death by choosing the right words,
For structuring their sentences to hold my dwindling attention,

I can only thank them for sitting with their pen and paper,
For becoming a part of me,
for giving me a renewed sense of perception.

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Years later, she opened her diary from back then. A consolation then, a trigger today. Painful sentences popped out at her- 'he touched me again today.' , 'my parents were happy , I didn't feel like telling them' and then, the most painful of all- 'they didn't believe me..'
She had almost forgotten what it was like to be a child and not be believed. The familiar pain hit her like a wave. She questioned her motives behind keeping that diary again- now just an annoying reminder of things she had learnt to forget.
She tore the pages, and let them burn.

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Tucked into a corner of the field of my vision,
Is this huge pile labelled 'Difficult pills to swallow'-
Just regular things that contradict some preconceived notion,
Pushed into that end, growing, with the fear of feeling empty , hollow.

Like a layer of plastic on the face of earth,
It doesn't let anything get in, it doesn't let life spring forth.
A mistaken glance, a lump in my throat- and I look away.
Like a compass, constantly pointing due north.

A escapist's version of leaving things for later-
It's like I traded with numbness, my sorrow.
With the heap grows the hope that maybe someday,
I will find the courage to look that way again,
Maybe, I will try again tomorrow.

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