RAGE

I hate fires.
I'm afraid of fire.
But there is a part of me
the smiles looking
into a fire.
Some part of me,
that loves the crackles
that light up,
above the flame.

That part is still
worried about being burnt.
But loves the warmth
from above.
The warmth;
cooled from the fire.

-

One cramp
and I start wondering
about that one stage
that I missed a leg-hold
pose; panicked.
The stage that made me
convince myself
I wasn't worth the art
anymore.
The tape keeps rewinding
back and forth:
same music, same cramp;
and I miss one here, too.
Was it the cramp?
Was the aftermath of the cramp?

Today I convinced myself
It was the cramp.

-

Packing is an art.
Packing to leave a place
you are introduced to as "home"
is a masterpiece.
I couldn't fold one tee
the same way I folded the previous one.
My clothesline don't align
and hence my suitcase is bulged
like it would pop at any time.
That's me. Not an artist.

But, I never looked back
Once I began the process.
It was so easy from beginning to end.
Maybe, I really wasn't leaving "home."
Maybe, I really wasn't leaving.

-

Pretty is a fairly ugly word.

When you can spend a few
more seconds to tag it, "beautiful"
or "rather,"
there's something this world
gains from those few seconds:

Pretty quiet words, pretty letters,
pretty long poems, pretty love story
pretty huge dream, pretty life.

Maybe it's worth it:
the fairness, the ugliness.

-

Time is cliché.
Time and again, you live on it, love on it and die on it.
Well, since I live and die on paradoxes,
I won't call you out on a cliché,
but time will.

-

The pieces of day that shattered into night,
pierced me; blood dripping down to paint a world.
By the cracks of the skin, I climbed to the top- to view the art.

-

~ The only poem

-

Camera-smudged

Walls smudge the edges of the perfectly-round sun
as an ode to my phone's camera.
I could not find my way to the terrace,
to click one good full sunset, the descending.
I'm drawn towards aesthetics online, that's why:
I could never capture the ones that I wish to.
The purple sky, breathing out
after being released from the bear hug
of the yellow-pink foliage,
clouds trying to run away, one before another
to catch along for a hug themselves;
envious even after the day long cuddle,
light blue streaks trying to reach for the spotlight
having second thoughts on fading
to hold onto stars and their disturbing twinkle.
It's a poetry
I miss out on reading out loud,
every single day.
A poetry, I attempt to save
to find time to differential diagnose
some other day.
Just like every other one.

-

Brushing my hair behind my ear, she whispered
"It's my fault, not his. I'm sorry; forgive him, will you?"


Ma, by now, I know your citations by-heart,
you don't have to tear that page off your research paper anymore.

-

Rock. Window. Bottle.

(Rock breaks Window.
Window shakes Bottle.
Bottle carries The Rock.)

-