I’m too soft to be a man.
Juggling, pushing, hurrying—each of them.
When I step out into the crowd,
I feel the need for a magic wand.
I’m too soft to be a man.

Darwin spoke of the surviving man—
the fittest, the quickest—hungry for more.
Each morning, I read the rage,
spilling across every page.
I fear becoming one of them.
I’m too soft to be a man.

Now I see—he is not a man.
Teaching, unteaching, shaping men.
When consent is claimed,
and morals are drained,
I think God too is not a man.
I’m too soft to be a man.

She held us, showed what is a man.
Breaking, bending every frame they claim.
When they fight to be right,
in my sight,
I see they can be a man.
I’m too soft to be a woman.

© Amit Choudhary, 2012 (Post 11P)

Heard the master shouting,
felt him pull the reins.
I galloped, galloped, and galloped,
with wrists in pain.

I starved for a pat,
and starved for the grain.
Twisted, faster, better—
all strain in the vein.

One day, I broke the tether,
and galloped in the rain.
No reins, no master—
yet I feared the wild again.

I slowed before the morning,
unsure of any aim.
They found me where I started,
and led me back unchanged.

I was leashed before daylight,
the reins felt just the same.
I galloped, galloped, and galloped—
freedom was never the game.

© Amit Choudhary, 2010 (Post 9P)

Hey, beautiful day, I just wanted to wish—
listen—what your beauty means to me.

My eyes open—6:30, like yesterday;
they know they will not see, even today.

My body bathes, as needed, to face the day;
it knows it will not feel the touch today.

I meditate—it cools the mind every morning;
yet I know, it changes nothing.

Dawn, dusk, or noon—
no flavor.

I know it all,
yet I go on, with a fake smile.

Boring—smile-less, fun-less days;
again, and again—
when do they stop?

I no longer wait for anything to happen;
still, I go to office—
a machine, moving levers.

Years ahead—no cheer,
lived like the dead;
fake, worthless cheerfulness,
worn every day.

Hey, iteration—
the day returns,
and I say,
good morning, once again.

© Amit Choudhary, 2012 (Post 6P)

His horse ran straight into the trap.

He severed heads from necks.

He saved the honor of his people,

and lost his own— 

his head falling from the shoulder.

He, the Hero,

was their ultimate guard.

He ran to his shop every morning,

closed deals with steady hands,

held his temper before louder men,

and carried his family on his back.

He, the Hero,

kept their world from breaking.

© Amit Choudhary, 2010 (Post 4P)

If ever one could become another,
I would become you.
If ever someone could love another,
I would love you.

If ever the sun should rise,
I would rise with you.
If ever the night should fall,
I would fall for you.

If ever they speak of love,
they will see us.
If ever teenagers taste their first kiss,
they will feel us.

If ever someone is born,
they will witness us.
If ever someone must die,
they will wish to stay with us.

© Amit Choudhary, 2010 (Post 2P)