The poetry in me Is not mine It is hers' And she is not me She is the lover And I am the wife.
She comes in me Time and again The uncalled for guest Yet I always play the host.
She details her sorrows And I listen to her Lending my patient ears To her endless pathos'
She gives me love And I, my sympathies. She beseeches me, Implores me, Moving me to tears, She cries with me... Offering me her poetry.
I offer her my Consolation. Telling her to live on' So that life gets its chance As Death comes only once And forever'
She has been true to life, Yet life keeps playing With her' Enticing her With the hope of miracles, Prodding her to believe in God And some faraway dreams to live for'
Yet reasons aplenty to die for' If Death could only come And relieve her of this tiring game Where Life seeks her, pursues her, To go on striving to live Till Death finds her Hounded and persecuted' And tired of living life itself.
She isn't a Coward ' She tells me She'll fight on' I keep hearing her story, The same old story Again and again' Yet she doesn't bug me.
She says that She is a part of me I deny it, she accepts it. And so, me and she together With our denials and acceptance Of each other' Remain close confidantes As she has the time for me And I for her'
Loving him hasn't been easy She knows it, I do too' Impossible living without him Yet we both live on'
Addicted to love, With his thoughts, Dreams and desires' Both of us - Mere mortals living like animals With pangs of hunger and thirst Never going away' Would there ever be Any Respite ?
Wish our souls had no bodies And our minds were without hearts May be then - It would have been easier To live on, to keep existing' Like body-less souls and Heart-less minds Sans the pain, the tears The feelings and desires'
In perpetual pain, This existence' She always tells me And I always listen Like a helpless friend, Unable to heal the pain She feels within me'