I Was Not The Broken Thing Anymore.

Inevitable

We were a prolonged sunset,

Something beautiful

That we knew 

Would end in darkness anyways.

We were a mouthful of words

The tongue couldn't help but mess up.

We were a tiny cat

Who climbed the big tree

And forgot it had yet to learn 

How to come back down.

We went skydiving,

Up, up, up 

And the earth pulled us back down;

We free fell into our own demise

And made a mess,

We left chaos behind.

One life people. Only one. Fucking run for it! Learn that goddamn language, read that book, draw shittily, sing off key and break some goddamn glasses. Fuck this illusion of perfection. We are here to goddamn live. Every art becomes less shitty as you work on it. Same with your life, it's all art babies. Work and get it y'all! Okay bye.

sometimes i still think about not being here, see all the futures in which i have ceased to exist. then my brain goes into survival mode and tries to find me all the things i will definitely miss, things i will not be able to do if i am not here. and i find it really dumb. all the things i will not be able to do if i am not here? bitch try everything! if you are not here, you have ceased to exist, as in, the real world no longer contains you as a person who is real and living and breathing. you're just burnt ash or like on your way to become fossil fuel for the generations to come. but does that faze you, not being here at all? sometimes the answer is no. but then i find myself overtired, fresh out of a long shower standing in front of the mirror in my fluffy bathrobe midst a daydream, dancing shittily to silence while brushing my teeth thinking of not being here and then losing that train of thought to all of the ridiculous things i could do if whatever i am doing does not work out and i am kind of content.

Ghost Children

There are moments

Bad and hard to comprehend, mismatched;

I do not know how to 

String together an entire good life

Or a person

Out of so many broken things.

What I mean is 

The Cat gets pissed

And he yells

He’ll smash the Dog’s skull

And there is so much rage in his body.

I do not know

How to tell the men 

This fury is not something to be proud of,

To carry or pass on.

There are children who have shrunk themselves 

And swallowed their own being

To fit into houses filled with so much rage:

Children who are too loud or too dumb,

Children who will never be enough,

There is no time;

Children who would rather 

Sleep on the streets

Than be here.

Children who cut out parts of themselves,

Make themselves smaller, be appropriate,

To belong here.

Children who rebel,

Grow tired of waiting, grow weary;

Grow up

And then cry for their mothers,

Gulp their own tears.

Children sitting on floors

Of good houses

And full families

And have never been more alone,

More annoyed at themselves

For not seeing all the good,

For noticing the wreckage,

For not smiling through their own slaughter.

Children who move out 

And do things they weren’t sure 

They wanted in the first place.

The Cat screams and scratches everyone

Trying to help him,

The Hamster yells of how her life was ruined;

The Parrot bites me, claws at the Cat and 

Keeps breaking things, so many things,

Screams of his entrapment.

I am small:

A rat in a big world,

    I have never been alone.

After Indian Mystic Poet Kabir Das

Kabir walked after death,

Walked his own body to a grave.

Flowers bloomed and plucked themselves

Out of their homes,

Placed themselves in the middle

Of life and a walk to the grave

To let a man leave in peace.

Kashi born,

He walked with the conviction

He had in his knowledge,

Challenged the Orthodoxes,

Challenged the convention;

Kashi born guaranteed a place in heavens

He gave it all up,

Got himself cremated and burried at the same time,

Got himself fights throughout life

And even afterwards,

Got himself a piece of satisfaction,

Got himself legends and disciples

And angry purohits,

Got a piece of logic and equality of castes

When there were no such words

And Brahmins were gods.

Man dead already,

Looked at his funerals,

Looked at the burial

And felt his head turn towards Meccah,

Could hear the verses ring in his ears

As the soil washed over the lack of his body:

"We created you from it,

And return you into it,

And from it we will raise you a second time";

Looked at the cremation

And felt his soul return to the gods

As they proceeded with the Antim Sanskaar, chanted:

"When thou hast made him ready,

All possessing Fire,

Then do thou give him over to the Fathers,

When he attains unto the life that waits him,

He shall become subject to the will of gods".

It hurt so bad and I did not want to feel all of this pain and dread anymore.

Fell in love with a stranger for a few moments today.

Life should be a long drawn affair of yellow.