Pugnacious Puttuswamy

There was once a loner

Strutting through the streets with a chip on his shoulder

He would pick a fight with anyone even if he was older

People thought he was a stoner

He was Pugnacious Puttuswamy

It didn’t matter if the weather was barmy

He was always ready to get all swarmy

But as it always is

People are rarely associated with the cola not the fizz

Pugnacious was not how he was born

He was merely lovelorn

On occasion he would change

Stop in the middle of his rage

When she would walk or drive past at a distance

He would tearfully look at her askance

Oh the pugnacity 

Was merely a veil

That embalmed a heart that broke without fail

The Romanticism of The Past

 

Why do they call it “the burden of the past”? 

Our pasts define us just as much as they defile us, 

we are both shaped and destroyed by the past. 

The past is an anchor point, to measure where we are 

and how far we have come. 

The past is a mirror to the otherness of ourselves that we

cannot otherwise perceive

The past is the crown on our head, it is the albatross around our neck

The past is the image, the mirage

The past is the voice inside the head, the monkey on the shoulder

The past is the downer to every upper

The past is the trap, the birdcage

The invisible wall, the visible delineation between

What we are and what we could be

Calling it a burden would be an affront

Call it anything but