Is it not sad enough that you have stopped
sending me any letters
Why does your old, crumpled letters have to
rest on my desk and make it worse? — % &Is it not sad enough that even now my poetry
revolves around you only?
Why smile at me and make it worse?
— % &

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STORY OF A CANVAS
//captioned//

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Your souvenirs
//captioned//

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Every fragrance, every aroma
Unveils a tale Or a trauma
Isn't that unfair
That your cologne smells bare?

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~You walked in like~
You walked in like a plastic smile
Put on somebody's face after a long while
Way too artificial and served to be agile.
Not knowing if it would stay for a longer while.

You walked in like a cold embrace
Very subtle, loaded with tons of disgrace
Behind the back all you feel is grimace?
This heart and mind are caught up in a never ending race.

You walked in like that fragrance of cologne, now forgotten
Those memories you bring feel fresh yet smell rotten
Those meetings those conversations? All misbegotten
Us? A mere enchanting tale, now annihilated and forgotten.

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The smog of Dreams?
Faded to dust.
Those skyscrapers of hope?
Shattered to what? Maybe despair.
Those long chains of dominos of hardwork?
Stumbled by the winds of failure?
The tradition of so called Optimism?
A long gone ritual followed by my dead conscience
Nightmares?
My new comrades even in the middle of a bright day.
Beautiful paintings?
Now filled with unimaginable shades of grey.
Health?
Like a clown walking on a tightrope , hoping to make it to the other end.
Existence?
A mere formality or maybe the will of others.

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My father: (takes me against my will to that wali bua ke ghar whom I dislike the most)

Me:

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Falling apart
//captioned//

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The safe place

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Clasping my trembling, profusely
perspiring hands when I am fighting
my conscience.

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