litters of laughter fall crushing in.
Cheeks redden and flush deep
with hot embarrassment,
as I realise someone having laughed
inaudibly over all the stupid lines
I have written someday.
I keep telling myself that
I really didnt mean to sound
so stupid, I am not stupid.
But then, I laugh at myself.
And wonder, how silly does
this get? Silly-er? Silliest?
What do people think of me?
Mad? Bad? Weird? Or worse,
Wild? A child?
That is the complaint really.
A child. An overgrown immature
impulsive stubborn child.
I try to conjure faces wincing
as they pen down a stern line,
or a rude opinion cropping up
inside and boiling disapproval;
and poor me facing it all,
red hot, flushed, embarrassed.
Impulses make the kill.
A laughter
is way better than a rude wince
or a retort, dismissal, throwing aside.
A laughter is acceptance, forgivance,
understanding and grace.
A scope for the child to grope
the meaning of such silly acts.
And then, I sit, looking at the
mirror and believing I have grown up.
Somewhere a voice calls,
and warns me in strong lines,
Beware Beware of people out there
who shall not know impulses,
who shall not forgive and smile
in sheer amusement and laugh.
But there are ones who are
full of malice. Bear your chalice
of innocent love and simplicity
with the utmost care.
Simplicity is, my child, not simple to bear.
I sigh and wonder what to do.
There is nothing by which
the harm I can undo but be aware
of malicious fares hidden somewhere.
And quietly I thank and pray
for them who have accepted me
with a smile, and some rosy colours.
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