A river of sorrow on a chained tusk,
Flowing through the cracks of the trunk.
Joining the cause means facing a crowd
The orange front that is too proud.
The flower on water, too quick to label
Anything other as damnable.
I would question the orange only once
Will it chain the almighty with a trunk?
The divine that spreads joy
Would it be caned to employ
As a trickster against their will
Only for Imaginary blessings to fulfil?
If not the tribes of change,
Then just point towards the issues,
Will I just add to the noise of the news?
Instead of standing tall, just one of them
Just another one accused of claiming fame.
When I am quite,
I am screaming in pain.
When I say I am unwell,
I desperately need help.
I don’t want a fight,
so I suffocate in vain.
I am to blame
for speaking my mind.
The villain in the story,
instead of the wounded.
I kept my eyes wide open,
for a blink will show
The tears that I hold.
I wasn’t taken care of when I was sick.
But suicidal thoughts make me selfish.
So I hug the one,
the traumatised child in me.
Even the crowded house,
feels empty to me.
I am Shivani Tipari, a camera-shy BA Architecture graduate from London Metropolitan University with a knack for poetry. I think poetry is an expression of emotions with encryption. Personal experiences of mental health struggles, nostalgia and culture are better condensed in poetry with facts hidden in plain sight. My struggle with a lack of sense of humour, depression and search for a different way of life makes me a Blahcksheep. I believe in slow travel and observing places throughout different seasons to get a deeper understanding of the local culture.