The Typewriter

She sits with panache,
looking out the window.
The sunlight peeping in,
through veins in the sky
Crossed legged, in a snug sweater
and coffee in hand,
she blows over the cup.
A lonely typewriter sits on the rosewood table
the scent of antiquity attached to it.
It longs for fingers to run over the keys,
to let flow the black ink,
to tell stories.

She steals a glance at it,
"Come to me, Come,
Write something. Write yourself."

She hides behind her commercialized coffee mug,
with the standard silly coffee table slogans scrawled over it.
"But I can't think of anything to write.
I'm running dry, dry, dry.
I feel empty."

She looks over at the typewriter again,
that old pal, waiting patiently.
"Write about the emptiness.", it whispers.
She walks over, cautiously
Like a curious infant
at the sight of something wondrous.
Gingerly sitting on the chair,
She runs her hand over the keys.
She writes.
No pause.
No interval.
She wrote.
Her dog resting at her feet.
Calm and quiet at the knowledge,
his master is revitalized.
She takes out the finished paper and smells the ink.
"I love you grandmama"
She looks at the typewriter and says, teary eyed.

Note: Writers always have had a seemingly eternal love affair with Typewriters,for some strange yet comforting reason.

Girls Don't Cry

“Turn your face and wipe those tears”,

Papa said to me.

“Girls don’t cry.”

“You don’t cry, my love.

You don’t shed those tears for those
not worthy of it.

You don’t cry a waterfall
For those who don’t say your name
With the same honor as you do.

Girls don’t cry
You don’t cry away nights,

For things that were never meant to stay.
You don't owe anyone anything,
and you dont have to do what they say.

But most of all

You don’t cry for anyone
Because you are sui generis

Your tears are not worth the
jeers and the mockery.

Girls don’t cry

For your smile, they do not deserve
if they can’t love you for you.”

He holds me in his arms
and looks me in the eye
and says,
“You are more than what you think you are.
You are the past, present and future.
You are my poetry and my story,
you are the words I chose to write my life in
you are your mother’s skin and my bones
you are the pearl hidden in the oyster.
Seize the moment, dear child.
For if you are afraid of falling,
then don’t paralyze yourself,

Don’t be paralyzed!
for we are all murderers
in a victimless crime.
Fall, fall, fall,
and  the stars will catch you in their infinite fabric of time.
And I will catch you if you falter in your climb.”

I wiped my tears and after that,
I never cried.
I vowed to him
that I will emerge victorious
Maybe bruised, maybe cut
Maybe sunburnt,
maybe hurt,
But, I swear,
I will emerge victorious
through this illusionary snare.