Meeting You Outside Poetry

You would have imagined me through
My poems, like I've after reading yours.
And if you ever meet me outside our poetry-

You'll be surprised to know that I've
A dialect that comes clean as an ooze of
Blood and the clarity of English on paper
Dies in the clutter of my mouth.

The feminism in my lines struggles to
Fit within the edges of soft chauvinism,
The romantic idealism chokes itself when
A beggar asks me for a rupee or two.

The ease of love often meets my
Desperation on my forehead at obtuse 

Angles and my confidence goes to toss
Seeking refuge in imposter syndrome.

I can't take a compliment too you know,
That's when my tattered sarcasm
Come alive and the way I talk about
Other's eyes, I can't make eye contact.

My conversation shall be a skewed 

Brawl between my body and soul,
Words may come out with an awkward growl.
And bisecting the aftermath of this

If you choose to say that you're just
'A poem' extending your hand and I might 

Realize where you come from and I say 

'Me too', shaking your hand.