By Joy Watson
What if life was like we see in songs, just a beautiful story , of love , betrayal, forgiveness, and then, a happy life. Those emotions, why cant we feel so intensely for anyone in real life. Why doesn't our eyes get watery with the feeling of joy or sorrow, why isn't there a big silver lining on our face often with a feeling of delight. Or do we suppress that feeling and focus on things that doesn't really matter. How about a smile for no reason, a dance with no song, A celebration without any cause.
Goosebumps. They are a reminder , an alarm, a notification that tells you, you're feeling something, the feeling may be of love, sadness, happiness, Fear.
How about a cold wintery night with some jazz music, pair of eyes that you adore, A smile you could die for, Strands of hair which can be your face blanket forever, a warm lap that can be your pillow, A shoulder that can be your crying junction, isn't thats how a life should be....like a big vacation.
Imagine seeing yourself from space. Suppose you are an alien, and observing the people of earth. People living with the sole purpose of surviving, following the predefined Notions of an Happy life. Day in and Day out, Working hard to feed them self and their family, so that you can feel happiness by seeing your child playing, your loved ones smiling. Waking up everyday, kissing your child, hugging your loves ones. Appreciating what the god has given you. How else can a life be considered complete?
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Just running in a mindless Rat race, to compensate for the dream you couldn't achieve, the life you couldn't live, the goal you couldn't score, and show everyone that, look i am doing good, earning big bucks, I am “Happy”. Even though when your soul is getting broken to pieces every second of the day. We people, are waiting for our life to start, while, Life is passing us by.
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Poetry By Lana Bella
About the Author -- A Pushcart nominee, Lana Bella is an author of two chapbooks, Under My Dark (Crisis Chronicles Press, 2016) and Adagio (Finishing Line Press, forthcoming), has had poetry and fiction featured with over 270 journals, Antithesis Journal, California Quarterly, Chiron Review, Columbia Journal, Poetry Salzburg Review, San Pedro River Review, The Hamilton Stone Review, The Writing Disorder, Third Wednesday, Tipton Poetry Journal, Yes Poetry, and elsewhere, among others.
Lana resides in the US and the coastal town of Nha Trang, Vietnam, where she is a mom of two far-too-clever frolicsome imps.
Lana Bella
1) DEAR SUKI: NUMBER THIRTY-SEVEN
Dear Suki: Busan, March 16th,
tearing wind in numbed hands,
I caught the snow helicopter on
frosted pelt of elms. Approaching
from the side garden, you waded
through the densest traces of my
affection, stunning as Maldives's
shimmering shores. Bottle-green
eyes clad in weight of conference
calls and unanswered emails, both
landscaped on as interlopers near
statues made of glass. Your face
arched towards me in the similar
way heart's dark sail stroke water,
ribbed and wind-seared, perfumed
with Chanel's Chance and robust
as unsweetened chocolate liqueur.
2) APOTHEOSIS
wreaths of laurel leaves hugged
the molecules of surfing dust,
and in that inviolable space
where the late afternoon infested
with erstwhile skin of sunlight
turned pale, you eased away from
the sleepless calm of weeping
plant heads, femurs spun about
the somnolent two-edged fronds--
across the angle, hornbills boasted
of flight stitching the awkward
flips of feather's fragile strokes,
like pixelated maelstrom navigated
the mat sky's competing swarm--
3) DANGLING
some other time, another hour,
will you ache where your inshore
skin begin and mine stop?
something almost sleek drew
a webbed foot down
the bevel of cerulean water,
oblivious to my hands placating
ghosts, and yours threading
the sky breastfed by dulcet clouds--
in time, you will have sized up through
the disgorged shadow of my weight
for the argyle of all that stirred unseen,
fingers cupped chamomile tea as
autumn wind moved about the empty
length of rain-slick avenues below
gradations of our scrap-metal years--
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End of hurt by Aashima Gogia
Depression acquires a considerable amount of time in life.
Anxiety is what keeps on coming again and again into the mind.
Brain’s bucket is full. Are studies less for it to store ?
Consequently, the short circuit happens. Either automatically by your brain, or you deliberately harm yourself
Feeling of hopelessness, helplessness and worthlessness gripple the soul;
To end the hurt, ending the life seems the last resort.
But, this is not a permanent state of affairs!
Things can change.
They have.
Why ending life for a temporary cause?
Will it hold any place in future?
Each one of us has to go through some bad phases;
To actually realize the latent potentials and powers.
Look at the people, with no eyes or hands; the ones, whose bed
is pavement. See your fellows
who are socially discriminated; think
of the ones with no resources,
to aspire and develop.
Your dreams, have the capability to set you,
free from the troubled trance;
Because what you seek is seeking you in the end.
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