A Very Grim Letter, Indeed and Other Poems

By Srihith Jarabana

A Very Grim Letter, Indeed

Dear Reaper, 

Last night I envisioned myself with a scythe 
As I briskly exited the blind mirror room
But it was difficult, let me be the first to tell you
Since it only takes an old friend like you to guide me.

I apologize, I tried to stab you in the back
But that was before I realized I was back
In the lonely mirror room that is
So really, I had stabbed myself? 

Okay that’s stupid but I still fear that I ruined any chance of leaving, 
So I take the handkerchief and wipe the mirror room clean
Leaving me with  myself and my stupid memory of me thinking,
“A life cut short, a soul full of frets, one too many regrets”. 

They tell me that the passage of time is what makes us learn 
But I think that they tell themselves that to feel young again, too 
We are actually the same in that regard, except I’m only 16 
Yet, I hope for my short story to be told from outside the mirror room. 

Maybe that’s why the reaper sneaks in like a silent thief, 
Perhaps you despise being the bringer of all this sorrow and grief, 
I try to tell myself it's okay as long as I’m in the mirror room, 
And that aging is just another way to see the rest of this new world. 

Maybe I shouldn’t give a care at all, still
What if I lose my vigor and ecstasy,
What if the mirror room becomes more of a burden to those I love,
Unable to keep up, and more importantly, unable to meet their expectations?

For though I fear aging, 
I know it's a part of some great plan,
And I'll try to cherish each moment, 
while I’m still sane in the mirror room.

Yours truly, Srihith Jarabana 

Clay

Mould it like clay, 
Call it a hard day, 
Hold me at bay, 
We were born in May. 
Your eyes, a stormy grey, 
They make me stay, 
I guess this is the way, 
At your final ballet, 
Hand you a bouquet, 
After a few more plays, 
You’ll make Broadway.  
While I’m by the doorway, 
With only you on display, 
Hoping it’s cliché, 
Trusting you’d never betray, 
As you leave me to pay, 
Like always,  
All alone at the local café. 

Crimson Bleeding

Leaves fall in the fall, 
               sobbing in the seasonal embrace. 
Crimson bleeding as they wander, 
               towards their final resting place. 
They know why, in truth, 
                 since in impermanence, we must face. 

Fake Drugs, Real Love

“Grandpa, did you take your meds today?”

He never does, willingly, anyway. 
I try to trick him by slipping it with a few heart-shaped pills. 
Still, he spits them out, and now he forgets simple things like my name.

I hope that when he moves on, he will leave just as quick as his memory. 

Outlets

You plug your issues into me every night, 
But you don't really care about how I feel. 
You just want to drain me of my energy 
And leave me empty and unwanted.  
You don't see me as a real person, just 
Sort of, as a reliable, convenient outlet. 

I hear the rumours, like a news outlet, 
That you used to switch to in the night 
And, you don't care that it is unjust, 
You don't understand what they feel. 
You hope to make them seem wanted, 
To take away their trust to radiate energy. 

Still, you consume so much energy 
But you waste it chasing an outlet.  
Soon, desiring to be under-wanted, 
Never alone because each night 
You don’t get two seconds to feel, 
One day, hoping you would adjust. 

But you are a person, I’m sorry, it’s just 
Sometimes I lack the empathy and energy 
To think critically about how I make you feel, 
Since you’re so much more than just an outlet, 
With all your quirks, like singing to the sky at night,  
I shouldn’t blame you for anything after being so wanted. 

Yet, I don’t understand why you act cold and unwanted, 
To yourself and the people who love you, even just 
Strangers that you encounter during the night, 
You opt to lose your passion; your energy, 
To be exposed to a vain, shoddy outlet 
That will never change how you feel. 

But if you need me, I can help you feel, 
And listen to your past of being unwanted 
As something more than a random outlet. 
I can be a person, who helps you readjust, 
By sharing all your passions and energy 
Like your love of talking to the stars at night. 

So, I’ll be your charged outlet that you will be able to feel 
For the night, so you don’t think of yourself as unwanted, 
Please just treat me right, and let’s trade positive energy. 

Srihith Jarabana is a sixteen-year-old poet writing from Oakville, Ontario. He
has always loved writing and has only recently started to dabble with poetry, including
experimenting with language and form. He also likes boxing and board games.