I'll probably call it sickness,
sickness of the mind,
the wrath of terrible timings,

I freaked out at escapades,
kind of a terrible night,
we are two people,

We don't want each other in our sights.

I am sick of it kindly,
Good sir, I will shapeshift into your complaints
I will be invisible and unsociable and kind of insane.

These pills aren't doing me any good
They are cheap from the local goodwill
They are made of rainbows and **** stained thoughts
And still I swallow them gladly.

I wonder how in a forest fire,
I walk with naked arms,
Take a spin,
give me a pill
Let me fight with your naked guns.

There was an Indian tale,
About the Indian sap,
Delicately wounded, delicately jabbed,
precariously tender, ostentatious sad
She was the Indian child of doom,
Her poetry was bitter and bad.

She wrote poems about the famine,
the *** of the crazy and the kind,
Often wrote about dreamers and pirates
And of the ill of the mind

Years and years have gone through,
She has yearned for the Odyssey of the great,
But all she wrote was the depression,
the depth, the sorrows and the hate.

She had written about the men
She had not known about,
She forgot their names, Mike or Rick
Or about the one that was stout

Well, what about the one that had hurt you,
Oh wait, all of them did,
This wasn't a circus or a mayhem
Or a story or a gist

She wrote and wrote and wrote and wrote
Till she could write no more
She realized she never knew herself
She was alone on the dance floor.

And gasping for air,
It is a polluted wasteland.
The way you unbutton that ghastly shirt
and sigh along your neck tie

Good sir, Do you want to step out for some air?
Cats and Dogs are dead everywhere

I push and pull
You pull and push
You had me inside a 5x5 cage,
Honey,
I wanted to die of old age;

I tied the tie in a loop
and forced fed you a month-old soup

You choked, I gasped
I developed a rash
Your face became blue
I love you too

And yet, when I cut your tie
There were tears in your eyes,
A story about Wanton boys and flies;

You broke my cage and let me free
But kept in you
A part of me.

I clean my room 10 times a week
Photos of my childhood and linen sheets,

Vacuuming its and bits here and there
But there's still dirt everywhere;

I try to save myself but I'm stuck,
I wake up inside a garbage truck.

To this day,
Keeping my scorpions as witness,
The shovels and the little dead girls from my uncle’s basement,
I love lamenting for my loss;

It is the truth that I bask not in Love’s glow,
I bask in death of you.

Malini, your skin is beautiful
Like summer skies beneath clouds,
Do not scrub your skin
You are my kin,
Make your mother proud.

Leena, sing Vande Mataram in a pub in Illinois,
Be bold when men take you for granted,
You are your mother's soul
And someone I always wanted

And say, who your father,
Your mother and your blood,
Say father is a role
Not decided by the gender
Father is a shelter,
Father is home.
Father is a man of your achievements
Father is the man of the house,
Say my mother is my father,

She's a lion, not a mouse.