Stringed

I have been attached to too many strings over here
I hope to survive, but not in this fashion
If I continue in this manner I would I fear
Consider my life as a waste when I am done

The strings run all the way from my hands and legs
They are bound to my fingers too painfully restricting my privileges
Only my little finger is left free indeed
To tickle myself to laughter and scratch my self in need

That’s to keep me alive in this
World with restricted freedom.
So what prevents me from cutting these strings?
Which have now turned red by soaking my blood…

‘Elders’ and ‘well wishers’ tell me not to do so as my very existence depended
Supposedly on these strings which infused me with blood
These strings gave me blood I agreed
But they sucked the love for my life out of me I argued

I was laughed at that I am a fool without vision
But what if I am the only one with the vision to see the reality of the strings...
Fortune favours the bravest I decide and pick up the tiny scissors
Lying hidden amidst my pocket trousers

They look very sharp and tempting testing
Once again the will to go ahead with my decision
Slick slick slick on the right and slick on my left
The remaining were easy once begun

I began my free fall into the oblivion into the darkness
With no strings attached onto a soft bed where I go unconscious
Free to toss and turn naked with nobody watching
I look at my fingers and look at the mirror

They were red with blood flowing with full vigour
Full of life once again with no traces of forced labour
I picked up my bag and a few pieces of bread
To create maps with a measure of a thread

And out I walked though the door to a world filled with
Colour and promise with no more deadlines to go with
With forgotten precautions, I enjoy my moments of freedom
Till I wake up to look at the red strings on my fingers
With the scissors on the table, far out of my reach.

Ashwin,
30-07-09, 17.00hrs