Prena Poetry

people like you and i, we will live our whole lives compressing our horror so deep in our chest, because we come from the root of ancestors who never had lives lucid and lavish. we come from the womb of mothers who were torn and forced into marriages. we will forever remain as an inherent part of the ancient trauma our families lived through that even as we comb the detailed molecules in our genes—we have inherited this legacy of suffering the day we understood—our fathers weren’t always superheros; they got tired and tainted too, and hated their jobs with every inch of their moral fiber. our mothers also had dreams apart from giving everything to raise a child and slowly die inside one pashmina shawl they ever owned. people like us—our beauty is horrendous, our ribcage aches from the childhood we had. we were happier, our families tired themselves to their bones to put a plate of rice and a tv infront of us. they bought onw car that holds our entire childhood memories; traveling and singing, and listening to our fathers tale about the boyhood he had in a house made up of bamboos.

you see, the grief leaks into our children at such early ages that after a decade we see them hiding prescription papers, because, as they understand one can’t control his fate, they lose the ability to also control their own brain chemistry. we weren’t birthed by accidents, we came as a blessing—as love, we came to serve the dreams our old generation planted. and people like us, we will never belong to anyone or anywhere, except only to our lonely selves. we are nurtured from the seed that will grow till it touches the sky and immediately wilt back to its root. we will live, every second of our life—trying the hardest we can, for we blend into same piece of suffering as our ancestors, we will love so much and offer kindness to people who wouldn’t deserve. people like us, we aren’t those flair, buoyant, lovely part of the human race. we conceive madness even before learning about peace and charm. we adjust to feeding on the rue of our choices, and hold funeral in our friendless little minds.

then we learn, to not be loved by someone is a tragedy, but not to be loved by own self breeds the real misery. however, we eventually get married off to someone, kindle endless memories in our core and then ultimately pass down this beautiful adversity.

you see, this slow, uncharming and grievous thoughts—our misery, our self loath, our sombre mornings as we wish to die, these little things bounds us so deeply with the earth, and yet at our final funeral no one will ever know who we were deep in our bones. we will be withered into nothingness—its a ritual, a cycle, a labyrinth people like us can never escape from.