Gypsy boy

I lived in a cave, he in a tree,
The world was one big forest,
The land was ours and free.

I shut my cave from the evils of the land.

But he knocked my door every dawn.

*knock knock*

“Cave girl, come see the color of the sand”

“The sand is white and filled with terrible creatures” I say.

Go away gypsy boy.

*knock knock*

“Cave girl, come see the twinkling stars”

“The stars are shiny and old, and monsters lurk in the darkness” I say.

Go away gypsy boy

*knock knock*

“Cave girl, come ride my pony with me”

“Your pony isn’t safe and I may fall down”, I say

Go away gypsy boy.

“Oh Gypsy boy, can’t you see,
why I live in a cave and you in a tree.
These walls they keep me safe mightily,
From the many dangers that run wild and free”.

That was the last time he came knocking at my door,
but i got lonely for my Gypsy boy didn’t knock any more.
Days and weeks went passing by,
It rained and I heard my old heart cry

I had to get back to my gypsy boy,

So I broke down my cave wall,
And he was still there standing tall.
“oh cave girl” he cried,
I gave you my all,
All you had to do was break that wall.

Come on now, hold my hand,
Together We’ll rule this free land,
Now love will be our only weapon,
If the worst should ever happen”

So he and i, we ran away.
To a place that snowed in the middle of may,
We were one now, gypsy boy and girl.
Two gypsies ruling one big world.


The Prince of Utopia

An arduous day has passed me by,

a day lost in hard labor,

Now I wait for him to take me away

to a place not known on paper.


This prince of mine,

of Utopian blood,

is divine in all his reign.

His body like us,

a mold of mud,

though carved to curb any pain.


I watch as he carries a mountain,

well above his throne.

My weary eyes trace his veins,

his back, inked  arms,

those muscles he grows of stone.

He is the master of all things mighty,

and I am a lowly soul,

Though it brings me great pride to say,

How humbly I make him whole.


My Utopian Prince knows little of love,

but smiles when I pass his way.

He swore to protect me with his colossal strength,

As long as his nights turn to day.

Angry Feminists

There is a general stereotype around feminists being angry. FemiNazis we call them. Angry enough to start a fundamentalist organization. (I truly hope that never materializes) but you’ll find a lot of jokes about angry, shorthaired, feminists burning the streets of the patriarchal society we live in on the internet too.
If not angry what do you want them to be, sad? A sad feminist is not a feminist (Please note: DO NOT read this in the wrong context. I truly understand Feminism stands for equal rights for both genders and not higher status for a single gender in this case, females)
Anyhow, Sadness can never bring productive results however, anger can. Here’s how, Anger leads to motivation, motivation instigates action. While being in an angry state of mind may not always lead you to make the most rational decisions, no one said there is no productive way to direct this anger. Why does anger necessarily have to be a negative emotion?. This kind of positive aggression is classified as proactive aggression by psychology. Yes, feminists are angry and their anger is now looked upon as a stereotypical joke, but they have full rights to be. Heck if it wasn’t for anger, I wouldn’t be writing this:
I was walking back home one late evening after my daily workout routine on the footpaths of the main road. I wasn’t the only pedestrian nor was I the only female pedestrian, I think it’s fair to say I felt relatively safe. Until, I was stopped by a car with a male driver asking me for directions to the college nearby. I gave him his reply from a safe distance, since he couldn’t hear me because of the highway cacophony I stepped closer to his car. He still couldn’t hear. Since there were only streetlights to illuminate the figure It was hard to see more than a vague silhouette of this man who looked like he was adjusting the cuff of his long-sleeved shirt. Unfortunately or fortunately rather, it wasn’t long before I realized the man was masturbating as he “asked for directions”. Infuriated and disgusted I immediately shut up and stepped a good two feet away from his car, I didn’t run away, in fact I ran behind his car because I tried to take down the number on the number plate of his car. Sadly for me he drove away with unmatched speed. Mind you, he was very well spoken, the last person who would pass for as a sex offender.
Now, I wasn’t assaulted physically but this still counts as harassment .I was scared, angry, frustrated and disgusted. I froze on the footpath even though this wasn’t the first time I’ve had such encounters. One can never get used to these situations. I began thinking what about the women who actually got physically harassed, a shiver ran through my spine.
Now let me explain to you my anger, while it is quite obvious that I am angry at the man for being a part of the uncivilized quota of the Indian population I was even angrier at myself for not doing anything about this. I didn’t get the numbers on his number plate, I didn’t make a complaint.
I didn’t do anything about it. SHAME. Because getting away with little crimes only gives them the confidence to commit bigger ones. Who knows? Tomorrow I will read of yet another woman being raped, harassed, assaulted. Why? because he got away.
Which is why I write, my only form of retaliation. Calling on all artists, musicians, dancers, singers, poets, writers. Express. Retaliate. The only way to win this war.