the truth

No canvas, not even proper training, no art class

I still grabbed hold a pencil and dared to draw a line

No matter how long I practice and scratch the paper

No matter how hard I try, I know, I can’t draw

Because, this thing, the art is not inside me

I don’t give much heed to snickers and jabs

They are merely a truth after all

Like many other truths that rend your gut

Yet honesty saves the time and we pay the price of the pain

Of millions of unaccounted hollow tendons round the spine of time

And the truth will surface from neath a million lies

I pay no heed to positivism

Or those who accept life as it is

I am not for positive people who accept everything

Peace, like suppression, must stifle you

Must choke you to death

And it won’t be a peaceful death


Published by Smita

Smita Ray is the mother of two lovely kids and hails from northeastern India. Her perpetual displeasure arising from the hypocrisy in the society underneath the semblance of religion, culture as well as the conditioning for compliance urged her to put down the impressions in her mind. In her spare time, she likes to have some culinary adventures along with her kids trying new recipes or crafting. She describes herself as -- a soulmate, a life alighted on the earth catching the rhythm passing by her. A tinge of joy colours her world and lays its feet on the land where revellers are awaiting her to get into the groove.

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