the last page was missing in the book I was reading,
that torn page was completely blank with just one sentence

"You found me to change the story".

So everything that I wished for , happened in some other universe and
maybe the ' other me ' wanted all of this that's happening with me now...

I want to leave this boisterous town of sadness and hate,
And shift my body to where my soul resides.
A place where I can hear the cascading waterfall
and see the serene green view of the evergreen forest.
The place which makes my heart flutter with the sound of the silent seashore.
A place where the morning begins with the soothing call of a peacock, and ends with the resplendent reflection of the moon in the lake.
The lake, in which I can see fishes breathing and witness nature healing.
A place where I can find my solace and peace.
I want to leave this boisterous town of violence and rage,
where symphony of honks and shouts fill the air.
And shift my body to where my soul resides.

My feelings flowed as my eyes graced the sky,
Finally, I can say goodbye.

Everyday I play,
With cockroaches,
Everywhere they stay,
And make me guess.
Where they are today,
When will they come out.
How did they come yesterday,
Why would she shout.
They might think, but Hey!
Could you please not be there,
Wherever, whenever I'm here!

I am sorry for the things that were not poetry and not true about people of my town.
For that I ask forgiveness. I lost my mind during that summer. I am back and I plan on not losing my mind this time. Though people of my town still treat mental illnesses and sexualities as insanities. That is true. I have a new job. My mental health have improved a lot. So hello poetry. I missed you guys.

I am still the same me. Poetic, strong, smart and brave.
My new job has less drama than working at a gas station.
I am working at a thrift store. Much better than a gas station.
My coworkers are fun to hangout with.
And I love my job. Nothing is better than that.

I am not ashamed to be a bisexual poet.
Writing is freeing and therapeutic.
Poetry is home.