the lie

She tosses her pretty head in the crowd

Every single pretty curl in place

Spent hours this morning, for crying out loud

Deciding which dress - satin or lace.

Oh, what to don, what to wear

What matches and what doesn’t

A thousand ways to do up her hair

Only look unkempt she mustn’t.

She casts her angelic smile

On the undeserving passer by

More than her perfume, her sense of style

They wonder where she gets her joy.

Flawless skin, mesmerizing eyes

The shades and hues of her make-up kit

Her perfection, however, belies her lies

They cannot know she cries herself to sleep.

Listen

Hush.

Withdraw from the overwhelming

pain, the confusion within

Abandon

Loneliness as companion

and

listen.

Seek refuge

amidst the chaos

of a pining heart

and

listen.

Listen

for the gentle reminders

in your heart hidden

Listen

you do know

the what's, the why's,

the reasons for.

Listen, and let in Peace

Home is where the heart is.

You belong with me.

Teardrops in an ocean
Gathering dust
Smooth like silk
Is the long winding road
Down to the depths of despair

My arms aren't long enough to reach
My strength isn't great enough to lift
To rescue you
From the inexorable movement
Of the cascading avalanche
That buries hopes and dreams
In the storm of confused fury
That is reality

So distant yet so near
The future screams its rage
And will not be ignored
The fangs of uncertainty are sharp
But the poisons of regret seem more sinister

Yet still outside
The birds shake free of the frost
And the flowers of early spring bloom
In the glory of the returning sunshine
The gift of the present
Must not be forgotten

Que sera sera
Que sera sera
Que sera sera

You belong with me.

One day I asked him. "Mister Wordsworth, why you does keep all this bush in your yard? Ain't it does make the place damp?"

He said, "Listen, and I will tell you a story. Once upon a time a boy and girl met each other and they fell in love. They loved each other so much they got married. They were both poets. He loved words. She loved grass and flowers and tress. They lived happily in a single room, and then one day, the girl poet said to the boy poet, 'We are going to have another poet in the family.' But this poet was never born, because the girl died, and the young poet died with her, inside her. And the girl's husband was very sad, and he said he would never touch a thing in the girl's garden. And so the garden remained, and grew high and wild."

I looked at B. Wordsworth, and as he told me this lovely story, he seemed to grow older. I understood his story.

Excerpt from B. Wordsworth, V.S. Naipaul