lists and things and stuff and you know… like…yeah.


one
i am dry with desire
parched in between cracks
hoping your tongue
with lick the dust that has settled
and speak life into a land
that seems so

vast

and
inescapable

dui
short hair bounces above my shoulder and covers my ears
i know it makes me look younger
i shall appreciate this effect far more when i am 40

tres
i feel a void. that longs to be filled. by those who are far away.
i am desperately thirsty to lap up words and thoughts that others offer
i don’t want a bonsai brain
(or worse, limited intellect)

let me have my weeping willow (it is, after all, my favorite tree)
and let me spread into sky and shadow
expansive and equally calming
and most of all
be my body of water that enables me to spread

the world feels so large
and i am eager to mark my space
let me grow
deep down
wide up

i fear, everyday, i might be shriveling.

vier
the disappointment sits heavy
like the weight of unfelled tears on my chest
letting myself loose in books
last night, i noticed
how the silence in my room
muffled the turning of pages

you’ll ask why i didn’t just tell you to your face
and i’ll say, it’s because you already knew (know?)
you’re just denying it.

as the book i’m reading says,
if you can’t understand it without an explanation,
you won’t understand it with an explanation

and so I’ll wait. for you to break
the silence
that between your dreams and my hopes
we created

sanc
night-time sequences
of things better forgotten
have a way of seeping into my days
into my thoughts
into my emotions
and i hate how my world is shaken
by things i cannot change

a holy number
why do we feel the need to mark time
don’t you know, the there’s a book i read
that tells me everything is meaningless?
but who am i to preach.

eight days a week
i tire

know
i had this theory
in high school
borrowed from the analogy
of using masks

i have this memory, of a clay mould
my fingers were shaping
to be covered by paper-mache
and black paint

what if the ‘i’ i claim to be
is a mask hiding only another masked me?
i wondered

what if removing a face not my own
only shed a layer to something else not-me?
and with each skin i peeled (painful or painfree)
was another painted paper and clay make
until eventually, all casings fell to revel
nothing

would that mean,
that those shells i used to cover and give shape to
the inviisble ‘me’
was actually the substance of a girl,
who is still, way past high school,
questioning
what’s underneath?

(if anything)

a perfect score
i don’t care if you read this
i don’t want to know your thoughts
this isn’t for you it isn’t written about you
so do me a favour and remove yourself from this, please
it’s my space, my place, my blog, my confessional box
and i pour words and thoughts here in letters
(a dash of poetic license i will use thank you)
so don’t dare tell me what to write
don’t dare telling me which emotion or words to use
you are not my muse
i do not do this for you
i see no need to be polite
you are a guest
correction, you are a tourist
yes you
the other self, this other person, some other identity
find your own place
to waste away
i have already claimed my indulgences here.

elves
i would do well
to avoid apologies
the mirror in my room
does not judge me
when i stand there
(however rare)
clothes-free

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2 comments
  1. pawan said:

    what will happen will happen..our choices makes us ,we just have to understand our choices…

  2. pawan said:

    too cryptic and matrix style hai but it is sort of how it is said” know thyself” or understanding life …

    also you are good enough to write a book (any idea can be become profound if you give it enough thought )

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