Blessing

You can call me brain dead
Coz I’ve got some vain veins
Countless spots in the insane scans
They look like microscopic yin-yangs
If I describe their transparent appearance

You might stare at me why I’m showcasing this story
It’s just my way to walk on this unending staircase mindfully
It’s my way to create the space, it’s sort of my own therapy

Brain hemorrhage on the right side had brought me to 3 hospitals in 2019
I was told I was close to die when the neurosurgeon detected a second bleeding
This critical sickness had loaded me with a new baggage of mental instability
I had to relearn how to sit, stand, move, focus, sense, grip through different therapies
The nights were crazy tough with restlessness, body pain & arrows in my head feeling

Now let me switch off the lights to show you a sparked scene
One day I was sitting on a chair in my hospital room to eat my evening meal
Later I wanted to simply relax after taking those heavy pills
But I fell off my chair when I tried to stand up on my unsteady feet
I took the chair down as well coz I had absolutely no balance in me

I was struggling to elevate myself with no tactile sensation in my left arm & hand
So I started to slowly crawl on the floor towards my elevation bed
The climb to reach my bed was hard as if I were climbing the Mount Everest
Sweat on my face but I did pull myself up against the gravitational shreds
At this point I realized, I was very sick & quite damaged

I started to ask several questions to myself
Would I be able to speak with the same depth?
Would I be able to walk without losing the balance?
Would I be able to work just like the old days?
Would I be there for my loving family?
Or am I nearing the death bed, this is it – the end?
Tears began to fall coz the new state wasn’t easy to comprehend

Trip-Track was the subconscious sign prior to the bleeding I visioned
It’s a poem that came to me before this all actually happened
I felt the bleeding had a purpose, there was definitely a deeper reason
Perhaps the highest source had decided to reset my seasons
Perhaps it wanted to shock & shake me to awaken my senses

So now you know why I’m sharing this old incident
It’s not about gaining sympathy or feeling sorry for myself
It’s to see above & beyond the eye’s strength
It’s about the deeper calling & to embrace the present
It’s a blessing that I’m still wearing this body as a sacred present

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©2022 Navin’s Poetry. All rights reserved.
Photo taken by myself with an overlay of my scan from Nov 2019.

Quarrel

The small dark spots in my head have inspired me to write this poem right away. These spots will last forever & I need to accept it. The form has changed & I must live my rest of life with this change. I’m working though to overhaul me to be the better version of myself.

These days I sit in silence
To avoid the quarrel
With those high sirens
To stop the violence
By not pointing the cold barrel
At my hot head to reduce the noise level

The imprint of my top shelf
Appears so dark from the shooting range
If you look closer, it’s in deep pain
My ground is covered with hot bullet shells
Ready to scream & layer my screen with thick red
The whole of me has uncountable dark spots, which make me spit lead

What have I become?
Why do I feel so frustrated?
Why is it still difficult to accept my new reality?
Why is my gun always loaded & pointing at me?
Why the feeling of pushing trigger to balance things?
Why am I wounded so badly?

Working hard to change my patterns
Life is on stake & is actually threatened
At times my body & mind are so drained
Difficult to find peace in that piece of frame
The feeling to drown in deep ocean to clean my stains
To heal my soul that has been bleeding since ages

Yeah, I can change all this with a blink
I’ve been working on this but sometimes patterns do stink
Building the physical & mental strength of my outer & inner skin
Trying to quit the quarrel & healing every particle of me
I’m burning in flames every single moment on this sacred journey
To form the new me from my ashes, the true being

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© 2020 Navin’s Poetry. All rights reserved.

Related poem: Spinal con-fusion: a poem by a survivor (1)