Choice and Other Poems

Choice and Other Poems
Illustration by Mathew Dibble

I breathe the air they provide,
I see what they make me aim at.
I believe what they think is true.
I let them speak for me.
I let them get under my skin and rip my organs apart. I let them slap me on my face for their amusement.
I smile when they ask me to pose.
I create when they feel it’s the right time.
I kill when they announce it’s condemned.
I die every time they walk through the door.
I am on a killing spree.
I kill my dreams, my daughters, my morals, my thoughts. I am running away.
I am running away from my freedom, my numbness, my skin, my soul. If only they give me a choice.
If only they give me a chance.
If only they instruct me to choose between.
My death or my death.


What is war?
To avenge the dead, they ask more to die.
All red they paint the sky.
Bullets and bombs, breaking will.
Lit everything on fire.
War-cries asking to leave humanity.
Who’s side? Black or white?
Their chessboard is all messed up, and they don’t know who’s on the other side. Men? Women? Humans?
Robots operating from afar, emotions locked in a jar. Moans and sobs are all you hear.
News and media planting rage and fear.
The air, heavy enough to smother our throats.
Butchering the dead again, holding guns in their overcoat.
Overdose of drugs and blood. Maybe that’s their new poison. What’s the purpose? Forgotten.
They outgrew the intensity of their pain
Yet no one’s willing to restrain
We are at war, always and again.


I fear my inner lover.
Nurturing a maniac or a mother?
Raised by the fragile, It lingers in unrest.
The deeper it dives to find the sea bed.
All It finds are mirages laid ahead.
It drowns. It drowns. Until somehow it..
Battles it’s way up to the surface.
On its way, It’s lost its purpose, all over again.
What does it desire?
What language does it speak?
Is love this destructive?
I don’t know.
I just don’t know.
Watching someone fall for me, tears me apart.
It holds me back as an anchor does to a ship, maybe even more.
It stabs me in my throat and holds me by my gut. All I can do then is breathe. I Breathe until the rescue arrives,
And It laughs in peace as another piece of me dies.


The walkways, those roads that I stroll on during the day now seem to be never ending.
They lead me nowhere.
The sun rises on my balcony every morning just to set in my dreams.
In time, I see everything in a pitch black filter.
The walls that I built around me have now become my home.
I’m growing comfortable with them every second. Like a child holding onto its favorite blanket.
Hiding in them. Never wanting to escape.
I settle for what I have.
I settle for an empty plate.
I settle for a rug to hide my body.
I settle for a broken bench to sit on.
I sit on it and I write using all of whatever broken I have left in me.
I write exploiting my broken expressions.
I sing the song of my shattered words.
Using whatever little I have, I sketch the image of that setting sun that I see in my dreams.

Author Photo 1

Bhoomi Bagadia

Bhoomi is a work in progress writer/poet/human. Her write ups are about the deepest, darkest notions and realities of the human world. She expresses herself through open mics and wordpress.


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