One Minus Two

Two poems lie in a line,

Walked hand-in-hand but though;

One was written over the other,

Only their creator knew so.

They read and were being read together,

Hugging the ink of each other tight.

But sense they made not,

Like these words I now write.

One was Calmness , the other Conflict.

Don’t you fall for their names.

Calmness could turn into a rage,

While Conflict would just sit in her space.

Easily misunderstood were they,

Their names their biggest bias.

Always having to prove their point,

“Their silence became our biggest chaos.”

Fed up of their cycle,

They shifted to different lines,

Packed their bags, shoes and socks,

Even divided their wines.

So now, you’ll read this poem,

Cause in a line you let them not.

Look closely between the lines, dear reader,

A poem in a poem you might not loathe.

Our Fight

Our fight just grew up, my dear

It grew boobs and muscles and thick black moustache.

Our fights started wearing stilettos instead of sneakers and short dress instead of shorts.

Our fight now hangs out in the pub more than a playground and loves smoke more than coke.

Lollipops and fairytales doesn’t excite our fight any more.

Is our fight getting too old?

Our fight doesn’t trust as much, my love

Our fight is a lot more scared ,

Of falling, hurting , bruising, scars and marks.

Our fight  gets offended, let down and hurt.

Our fight cant cry, or fight;

Our fight no longer wails like a child.

Our fight only does whats needed and has strong opinions about things

Our fight is a rebel,an activism- fighting genders and equality and questioning all social norms of things,

Our fight now types more than write, Our fight doesn’t smell books anymore.

Our fight is in a hurry to fight.

To get things out and get things right.

Our fight now tries hard to smile and please.

To have a logical explanation, to not be sad without a reason for things

Our fight finds it difficult to go to sleep at night

Our fight now has filters for others delight

Our fight is too scared to scream and dream.

I wish our fight had never grown up with me.

Our fight is more perfect now;Fighting in pure white,

Our fight uses proper grammer and pronunciations always done right.

Our fight doesn’t laugh with our mouths open,

Our fight will just giggle once in a while.

Our fight is much more grown up now,

Our fight is more practical and logical and right.

Our fight was young and stupid,

Covered in mud and dirt and stains from the previous meal.

Our fight was loud and mad and screaming

Mixing languages as and when it pleased.

Our fight was full of  scars and bruises

Flaunting it like a proud golden trophy

Alas,

Our fight is an adult now , my dear

I wish our fight never grew up with me.