A beautiful poem on the truths of aging.
No one told me,
in my haste to grow up,
that adulthood, awash
with responsibility,
would still be lonely.
And, no one told me
that the days and nights
of sweating over papers
would likely not lead
to the life imagined,
nor that commitment –
the kind portrayed in movies –
does not exist – the word, itself,
bearing more substance
than the act – a fickle sentiment.
No one told me that
motherhood – the act
of giving birth – would alter
my reality permanently,
colouring it with unfathomable
pain and joy – such juxtaposition.
And, no one told me that
every battle I ever arm myself for,
regardless of its justification,
is really a struggle with self –
inner demons the most menacing.
I never imagined that age –
with seismic force,
would alter my perspective so –
leave me barren and yet enriched,
enthralled with the ordinary,
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