Help...

...I think I have a problem. I like to help people. But that is not the issue here. I like to help them even when they don't want it. That, my dear, is my headache.

Just the other day somebody on the subway asked me for directions. Being next to clueless about the less frequented (and not so happening) corners of NYC, I cringed, felt myself curl up, and with a profoundly apologetic voice said the 3 golden words- "I don't know".

I don't think she cared. She asked another, got her directions and moved on with life. I, on the other hand, felt myself muse over it for a while. I almost felt accountable for not being able to help her right away. Strange? Psychotic even I'd say. And I felt the urge to help someone, anyone, to make up for that failed endeavour.

After a few precious and baffled minutes spent on this thought, I shelved it with the belief that I find true gratitude in being able to assist people. Perhaps I like to collect "Thank you"s  or if I were in the UK, the "Thank you darling"s, and store them in my appreciation chest. In time I can re-vist these treasures and feel smug about my unique collection. Perhaps I have a thing for content looking faces or slightly grateful smiles. Perhaps it's my attempt at a good-deed-a-day lifestyle. Perhaps it is my way of searching for acceptance in the world. Perhaps, there is no philosophy to it and I am simply crazy.

But I do it unfailingly. I am not a saint, I do have my evil streaks. But those immoral moments are laced with a pressing need to do some good. Do anything, anywhere. Help someone cross a road although they may be fully capable of doing so on their own. Tell someone the time only to notice they are wearing a watch. Answer someone's question and then hide the blushed face of an eavesdropper. Pick up something one dropped only to realize they were littering.

Queer hobby, I admit.

I am a terrorists' nightmare.
I am a social workers' stash.
If you see me extend my hand,
Get up and dash!

"Moving"

I sit, I watch, the looks on their faces,
Some tired, some tried, some been through phases.

A story deep, or simple even, a lesson learned for some,
Perhaps true, perhaps not, perhaps a facade put on for fun.

I shuffle in my seat, I stare, as another eye meets mine,
Deciphering me and my life, who knows, there is never a sign.

A rainbow of feelings, simple smiles, fuchsia to amber rose
They come, they go, our meet is short as prose.

I learn, I experience, something and yet nothing everyday,
A place of silence, people talk, yet no one has their say.

I hear my cue, I leave, the wheels halt a while,
The closest I come to know them, is know they too travel with time.

"Flipside"

It's a strange theory
This pretentious life,
While you to live it
You just survive.

Escaping mishaps,
And horrid horrid death,
We measure quality
By abundance of health.

Why must it be morbid
Grey, of tears and strife,
Maybe we are born dead
Waiting to experience life.

Life begins, they say
When a man gets his wife,
But ask the husband
And he may tell you otherwise.

Whilst we live
We are 'dying' for things,
And even relationships begin
Killing an old fling.

Prayers for a happy future
A million people say,
But tomorrow only comes
With the death of today.

In the end, a picture it is
Blue,black, or perhaps red,
Of death and it's ways
Living in your head.

So the poet in me
Will die the very day,
Words leave me
And I have nothing left to say.

For when someone asks
How did she live? Cry or laugh,
I want to raise my hand
And recite my own epitaph.