I still remember my young self
From years ago when I used
To fantasize about the
Friday nights I would spend
In a club with rebellious
Friends,getting drunk
On the dance floor and then
Run down the street with
An unknown man I would
Have just met in the midst
Of the dim,but flashy disco lights
And intoxicate myself
More and more
And find myself in yet another
Club with bottles of Scotch
All ensnaring my mind
And senses next Friday-
It seemed so right,
Years ago in my fantasies;
But with time, I realized
That Friday nights are much
Safer in the hands of a book,
Than in the guilty embrace
Of beer and whiskey
And much more beautiful
When you take in the essence
Of the pages that remind you
Of home,than in the hands
Of the pretty strangers
You find on Friday nights.

They told me that the ultimate arrow
That would pierce its way
Into my mundane heart,would be
The death of a loved one,
But as time flipped its own pages,
I embraced the realisation that
Losing loved ones is not as painful as
Intentionally letting them slip
Through your hand like grains of sand
That merrily mingle with the rest-
But no,the girl next door said that
She saw warm blood flow from the throat
And along the flaky skin of her
Abusive father,whom she despised
With all her soul and that was when
Her heart felt lacerated,
But then the old lady at the bus stop said
That when her step mother,
A lady of fine taste,
Burned her hand with a piece of coal,
She heard her heart shatter,
With a slight tinkling noise,
As if it was made of glass.
Bafflement took over me,
And I sat on the couch,
Pondering about the‘ultimate arrow’
They warned me about,
Wondering how the Arrow could have multiple forms,
And then, I found what
I was searching for-
The Arrow,
Is not just a single sardonic notion,but
A quiver full of sorrows
And grievances, that shot
People’s hearts, one by one.

They say a mirror breaks
Into a thousand pieces
When it is hit by
By anything that contains
The force to shatter it
And crack the glass,that
Might have been immaculate,
Or might have been *****,
With layers of filth-
There might have been a
Lady,who looked at the
Mirror and ogled at her
Perfect complexion and
Candy apple red lips,
Or there might have been
A teenage girl who
Looked at it,only to
Check if the acne’s gone,
There might have been a
Child who smiled at the
Mirror, to get that same
Sheepish grin in return
There might have been people,
So many people,
Who looked in the mirror,
Some to forget,and
Some to remember,
Some to dream big, and
Some to hide a guilt-
But now, all of it
Lies shattered in bits,
In shards that dig deep
In the skins of humans,
And sardonic blood
Flows warm against their skins-
All the faces are now nothing,
But sharp,evil shards.

As the sun embarks
Upon a journey
To the hills that it
Insolently calls home,
It becomes a painter-
A wild one,
And splashes its colours
Carelessly,
As if purging them,
And creates a pristine
Melange of dire shades
And a melee of
Cacophonous hues,
While writing a vague
Amphigory,
And swirls the clouds with
Its sugary, yellow fingers,
Like those of a gluttonous child
Who spent most of his time
Handpicking his favourite candy,
But as the clouds perform
An elegant pirouette
And make merry for the world
To ogle at,
The dreary eyes of a young girl
Find solace in the daily atrocities
Of the endless sky.

The words that I write
On smooth, white sheets of paper,
With blue and black ink
That flows as it creates the illusion
Of a soft rhythm with a pulse
That indicates it's alive,
These words that take form
As they wish, without my permission,
In a form that is free of bonds and constraints-
That is how I have chosen to
Release the thoughts
That reside in the back of my mind,
Captured by the inability to be displayed through speech,
And desirous of being ordered to dance
In ways that the art of poetry demands.

Your teeth act like corrosive agents
for the insides of your cheeks, taking
one layer down with every second thought
and anxious regret, spilling blood
onto your tongue and carefully indenting
the flesh in your mouth to make it
look like a graph of your decisions,
but I'm here to tell you, that even if the blood
in your mouth were acid, it could
never melt your tongue.
Your thumbs rub against each other
in the same way the bones of
your wrist glide against the sound
of panic in your marrow,
friction between two identities with
the same print and subtle ridges,
sometimes holding on to one other only for a second,
but I'm here to tell you, that even if they chafe each other
every time you time you think, they will
find each other and acknowledge, accept, and stay.
Your nails are short and misshapen,
their length decreasing with every bead
of sweat on your brow when all they want you to do
is think, decide, act, and you know you cannot
as long as your teeth keep chewing
the skin off the tips of your fingers
and your heart beats slowly when
you panic and at the speed of light
when all you need is a slow rhythm in your chest,
but I'm here to tell you, that even if your nails
aren't long enough to scratch the angst
off your forehead, your heart, however
untimely it's speed is, will beat as long as you
keep the fight going,
it's beating, you're breathing, you're fighting.