bombay.

The spider webs have shattered.
What was once home
Is now a splintered reality
Of senselessness.
I have lost so much
In this city I love.

Gritty, brave, crumbling monster
I’ll hug you with my empty heart
And hold you as long as I can
But you and I know
These days that we have
Carry in them
That terrible ache of lovers
Who never really learnt to say
That final goodbye.

The Manifesto of the Repressed

We are not really sure we have the right to have this manifesto.

If we do, we hope it’s okay to say what we want.

We intend to cause nobody any harm and we are sorry if it does.

We wonder how many rights can we have, is there a number limit?

Some people think we are talking bullshit and they may be partly right.

The people who are partly right, insist they are fully right and we may agree with them.

We actually think everything is fine and there is no need for this.

Wasted Tears

Why are we cruel to the people we love?

Subjecting them to temper tornadoes that wipe out their smiles and self confidence?

Saying nasty things that cut them so bad that the scars never heal?

With patience so short and complaints so long?

Ignoring them as if they were yesterday’s wall stains?

Answering in monosyllabic words spat out with disdain?

Insulting them for a joke nobody will laugh at?

Insulating our bodies from theirs, denying touch and tenderness?

Watching their lips move and blocking their sound from reaching our ears?

Telling them we don’t care, while they lie on the same bed with a heart reaching out to be hugged?

Why are we cruel to the people we love?

Today, be gentle to someone you love.

 

Drooping Mondays

There was a time when I used to love Mondays. For me, it would mean the beginning of a new week. A fresh slate, where yesterday’s mistakes are wiped away, a chance to redefine who I am and create a world closer to my idea of perfection. Of late, I am beginning to hate Mondays. I wake up listlessly, drag my feet, my soul droops, there’s something wrong and I don’t know how to fix it.

Regret

Of late, there is a buzz in my head singing songs of regret. It has this annoying tune that keeps chanting the decisions I took in rhyming verse. The background score is a laugh, low yet mocking and when I think I don’t hear it, is when it crawls up loudly under my skin. I try to ignore it and drown myself in work, whiskey and words. It doesn’t help. This thing crawls, niggles, wiggles and nags through every single distraction. Sometimes I have a feeling it lives in my ear. Maybe that’s why Van Gogh cut one off.