With a book and pen with
Its lid open- To try to
Corner my thoughts with
A hope to make something
Out of them.. like it really
Matters.
It does though.
It doesn't too.
The writer's face I assume,
Wears away and comes
Back constantly while
I try to ponder over
The existentialism of this
Entire exercise.
Not the wind and the rain
Not the rivers and
The mountains, Please!
The way I've exploited them.
They should slap on me a
Harassment case.
I hear the vehicles honk
In the distance.
The boys chatter as they
Play cricket.
The neighborhood lady
Washing clothes- clink
Of her bangles.
I try to bring the barking
Street dogs.
But they've made many
Guest appearances and
Comeo roles.
On any random day they
Might just decide to give me
A taste of rabies for
Using them without any
Rewards.
Then I keep drawing shapes
On the paper without any
Fresh ideas.
A tree in the corner appears,
A circle, square and
A vague geometric house.
I think about you and I
Like I haven't written enough.
A long list of my family members
Cross my mind too, without
Triggering anything.
After everything was compared
To everything else.
After the leaves became feathers,
The flowers became damsels.
All the old men became
The village banyan tree and after
You became a chill goddess.
The rusty engines, the dry grass,
Dilapidated huts and
Looted ancient temples.
Ahh! It's tiresome!!
To not find correlations.
And then I thought I would
List all the things I'm tired of
Writing and ended up
Writing about the same-
Compelling the obvious ironies
Face each other before
I let them die without any
Glory.
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