Growing Up

Growing up
is a balancing act
of who you were
and who you are.
Shifting bones
and making space
for new love.
It’s shedding skin,
leaving behind dead tracks
and emerging anew.
A guessing game.
Definitely, maybe
oui, non.
Growing up
is becoming water,
ever changing yet staying
just the same somehow.

 © Richa Bhagwat

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Simple Fact

In school we learn,
that the earth revolves
around the sun.
Funny how
This simple fact,
goes down the drain.
When later in life,
we learn how to stop
revolving our world
around someone
over and over again.

 © Richa Bhagwat

Ailing Heart

don’t sit there
fixing your ailing hearts
there’s much too life in you
to so easily fall apart
hearts mend themselves like
how there is no cure for common cold
a few weeks in however
you can breathe once more
if you were to shatter so easy
there would be sand in place of bones
if you gave up each time
you wouldn’t be reading this poem
there’s much too life in you
one too many to impress
the whole world awaits you
make sure they never forget

 © Richa Bhagwat

Echo

My gut echoes,
firm, resounding.
It marks the perimeter
and digs down a flag into the earth.
Puts it’s foot down
and screams into my valley.
I feel it in the wind,
as I hear my veins sing.
It reverberates through me,
till it reaches everywhere.
It puts meaning into
every vain action
into every strange occurrence
and every foggy lesson
that this gracious year
brought into being.
My gut echoes,
and old flimsy doubts
rattle and shake and
break from the impact.
“You know what to do,”
I hear back.
And slowly I go
from looking to seeing.

© Richa Bhagwat

Tricky Bit

To fit in,
is to shrink.
To lodge yourself
into spaces
not wide enough,
not right enough.
To dim your light
and fold your wings
and camouflage
yourself until,
you’re no longer
who you have been.
To put a veil
on where you’re from
and why you became
who you are.
It is understandable,
why you do it.
But this is the tricky bit:
those who shrink,
will never know
that the world only
ever remembers
the ones who
didn’t fit.

© Richa Bhagwat

Brains and Bodies

Our mind’s a battleground
for our thoughts to implore,
self worth lying quietly
in dress form on the bedroom floor.
It makes me dizzy,
my brain goes sore
at the idea of this body
slipping into gore.
Of it turning into what
I suppose they see
rather than being what it is,
not a physical anomaly,
a sight instead for wonders
to occur.
A shield of resistance,
staying the same despite
an attack of
unkind words from me,
the mocker.
If our brains and bodies
had their own way
perhaps they would sprout wings
and fly away
than listen to us
back talk and slam tags
like we intend to return them
to the store.
We would still not be happy
if we got to choose them
from racks of a dozen more,
thank God the receipts got lost
in this cosmic galore.

© Richa Bhagwat

Muse

And when it all falls apart,
you choke on words simple to use,
when you are too lonely,
to explain, to understand,
when there is no hope to diffuse-
turn to the arts.
Turn to the music,
turn to the literature.
Turn to everything old but
still breathing.
To the living proof of all
emotion being already felt.
With every page, every note,
every swoop of a brush,
you become the muse.
Every kind of heartbreak,
everything that ever went wrong,
every isolation accounted for.
Artists paint, sing,
write when feeling no longer
suffices, it must transcend,
that is the norm.
And suddenly the world
will feel tiny and small,
as you listen to every song.
As you unravel,
every person, in every form,
every colour and every race
every shape and every name
everyone in some way,
has borne the same storms.

© Richa Bhagwat