The lover and The loved

It's 3 in the morning.
I am awake, only awake.
As if waiting,
Waiting for my gizmo to decide the time I sleep.
She is awake too, walking.
Lovestruck, waiting for her gizmo to talk. 
Her dexterous fingers work with the speed of a dozen typewriters.
Her confident demeanour flashes,
her two paged life - twinkling with As (plural A).
As mine, flutters with Fs.
The wind rips it with holes,
thinking, I' ll give it a F.
Caught in a miniscule life, stuck in gigantic darkness.
Wish, I secretly harness
for an A to possess.

As the different genre of her clicks barge in,
overtaking my own.
I see,
her long eyelashes flirt better than my googled imitations.
Her grace's skin, flaw lesser than my calculated calculations.
Panache, poise,  personality.
Caught in a miniscule life, stuck in gigantic darkness.
A wish, I secretly harness
for her constitution to possess.

Delving into her notebook, I realize we are similar.
They carry her notes- her potion of potency,
my carry my poems - my potion of poignancy.

I introspect,
in my loud world, echoing silence,
I only whisper resilient sobs,
beneath my mountain of Fs,
stuck in a galaxy I don't belong.
The world belongs to her - the loved.
It's humans belong to me - the lover.

Back From Death

With each step towards pragmatism ravaging my existential territory, the idea of death seems quite tempting in that context. It is painful, it is agonizing, it is devastating, and it is killing. It is like walking over a thousand broken glasses with bare feet. I wish, I could show my bruises, my injuries to people, but then those injuries are miraculously invisible.

Even if I had some powerful chemical to make them visible, I would still not because even then, whom would I show them to. I have no one. No one is mine. I am no one’s. When I talk of people in my life, family and friends come to mind. But family accompanies the stink of superstitions, customs, traditions, and limitations. Friends remind of practicality, competition and job security. Perhaps, no one reminds me of myself. I wish someone did.

Perhaps, death does. It makes one free, unchaining one from all such baggages and freeing the soul of these barbed wires. It is rejuvenating, liberating and pacifying and hence the best option to tackle my melancholies.

But then, I think that all that I thought about death is supposed; nobody has ever narrated or described death to me. They all talk about it based on their own imaginations. What if it was actually not like that. What if after dying, life actually seemed easier and happier? What if life seemed more desirable after death? The regretful presence of these what ifs makes me dislike death.

And then, even in my deepest conundrum of unsolved mysteries of life, I suddenly realize that death isn’t the solution, since it actually doesn’t offer us the freedom it is considered to. Life gives us the liberty to die but death doesn’t offer the same menu.

As if, hit by a jolt of lightening, I decided to first explore the menu of life and relish on each delicacy it offered and then maybe cling off the cliff of death later. So, I got up from my bed, wiped of my tears and began writing.

A Poet's Day (part 2)

Today, they finally hear -
With eyes, with ears, with hearts.
Fire sweeps in swiftly through the logs
burning me, snatching my strings of attachment.

As my body burns, my soul rises
with each burning sensation, starts a new chapter.
My limbs wither with the warmth of the wood,
crippling me of the strength.
My heart ignites blatantly,
dismantling my emotional attachment.
As my brain burns,
I exit the gates of mortality and enter the gates of reigns of death.
 
I am amazed to find myself in this world of mirrors.
It’s bewitchingly enchanting.
I feel free.
As I walk down that aisle,
surrounded with mirrors,
overwhelmed.

Suddenly, something smoulders inside me.
My rug tearing apart and I burning.
These mirrors absorb me in installments,
reflecting me against each other.
Tossing me around,
like a pawn.
Changing me,
diluting me,
with their own adjustments,
preparing me for the next world.

Burning the last follicle of my memory,
decreasing me, dimnishing me.
I feel helpless,
life gave me the power to die,
Perhaps death doesn't offer the same.
As the last evidence of my existence,
turns into ashes,
I wish I had lived.
I wish I had lived.

A poet's Day (Part 1)

Like a smiling mannequin waiting to come alive,
I waited,
for ages.
Today, I finally live my life.
Today, I finally have their ears.
Today, the finally hear
with eyes, with peace, with hearts.

The buds of my mommy's mind finally blooms.
The locks of my daddy's permission finally break.
The tree in the garden of my imagination finally blossoms,
decorating the city of their mind.

They finally come to my show,
to warm their hands in the fire of my pain.
But, it wasn't easy.
Like a wave, he kept on moving,
though rejected each time.

Like a rope rubbing against the wall,
I was the same, yet different each time.
Little more destroyed, little more strong.
But today, I burn myself to show the scars I gave the rock.

Like a smiling mannequin waiting to come alive,
I finally live my life.
On my death bed......