How many sunsets does it take to feel like you actually belong somewhere
How many awkward conversations does it take to feel like this is home
How many wet pillows and repeated hellos does it take
How many seen-zones and ignores
How many ‘from tomorrow onwards’ promises
How many written poems and spoken word performances
How many “hey, you’re the new kid” labellings
How many corners and books to get lost in
How many sleepless nights and midnight walks
How many rotations of the earth
How many revolutions, if that’s what it takes
Till I stop feeling miserable one day

So you ask the difference
Between prose and poetry

Prose is just... prose

But poetry is a song
An entire universe, coming full circle
Poetry beats with my heartbeat
And it sings, but in a melody
Of words and midnight thoughts
Of strong coffee and dreamy haze
The mix of noise and silence
Poetry matches the rhythm of my feet
Tip-tap-tap, tip-tap-tap, it goes  
It climbs slopes and mountains
Varying in speed and delivery   
And descends, slowly, sliding into a pool of emotions
10,000 degrees of sadness and happiness
In each verse of the poet
Poetry is destruction and creation
Of the old and the new
Of statements and opinions
Of the paradaox of our age
Things built and unbuilt,
Broken and assembled
Like a lego model of complications
Poetry is revolt and revolution at the same time
It is a chant for liberation
That cannot be overcome by dominance
Or by any evil things of these times
Poetry is the hope of the protest
And the push for change
Waiting patiently, just going over the edge
About to burst not into flames but butterflies
And clear skies, Sunday morning sunlight
Like yellowed novel pages
Poetry will turn you inside out
Bare the soul and tear the flesh
Scatter the foundation of bones
Until you wonder and ponder
Over your very existence
Poetry is everywhere
And by everywhere, I mean, especially your toilet
Best thought out on the ***
Poetry is a word search with infinite vocabulary
Hoping to cross out as many as possible
But it never ends
Poetry is in the shade of your backyard tree
Of the things in this world that cannot speak
So we speak for them
It is the shout of the left-out, marginal, never-really-existing people
Poetry is life given to those who would not have had one
It is a Christmas sock for the soul
Comforting and warm, cherished in all forms
Poetry is writing poems for yourself and reading them in front of the mirror
And at the same time
Standing in a bazaar and waving your arms
Among cows and vegetables and chaat
Shouting, "Listen to me! I've got something to say!"
Poetry is getaway
In corners and edges
It is trying to escape everything real
And wanting the surreal
It is the 1 o'clock fantasies
Riding on waves, pirates of my own land
Middle Earth and elves, the adventures of dwarf lads
Poetry is the life-changer, the inspirer
The 'you'll be alright'
And 'next time buddy'
To every exam failed, every heartbreak
The arm on the shoulder, the pat on the back  

Poetry is... A lot of things
But most importantly,
Poetry is you
It's in the whispers of you singing in the shower
It is your ugly, spit flying, gums showing laughter on the terrace
It is how you snuggle right into my emptiness

Poetry is the answer
To my 6 year old adopted kid's question
When he walks in with my 10 adopted dogs
And asks me,
"Mom, what is everything made of?"
I'll first tell him that matter is made up of atoms
Because, of course, he needs to be scientifically correct
But then I'll add that everything is made of poetry too, there's not much difference

See, prose is just prose
But poetry is not 'just poetry'

My heart is a rookie, new and fresh from the drafts
But mid-season, it got injured and never really came back into form

Kamla sits on the stairs outside a shop
Wearing a worn out sari, holding a stick
Her thick glasses dusted with dirt from ages
She keeps her left hand extended
Passerby's coins make up her living
Jamal is always on a crutch
He sleeps on the footpath outside the masjid
When one day, someone drove over him
But justice for poor is non-existent

But you
You stand in the middle of the road
While a line of cars wait
You burst crackers like it's your own backyard
The remanents splattering everywhere

Instead
Go light someone's life
Give Kamla something to eat
Give Jamal a blanket
Who may be tapping car windows at traffic signals
Begging, to overcome our ignorance

I want to unscrew the window grill and crawl out
To the vastness of the world
I want to throw stones at your window
And tag you along on an adventure
Make a space ship in the garage
Travel to parallel universes
Shoot the weird *** aliens
Even if it's all just the aftereffects of marijuana,
I'd like to smoke some with you
What do you say?
Will you be the Rick to my Morty?

If you're waiting for a Prince Charming
I'm sorry to break your fantasies
But he will never come
If you're waiting for someone
Handsome, funny, wealthy
Understanding and caring
All at the same time
Then you won't find one

But maybe you'll find a
Funny nutjob without a job
Or a wealthy guy shielded with walls
You'll find a
Handsome hero with a broken heart
Or maybe an understanding nerd
With no looks at all
Love won't measure and calculate
Because 'lovability' is like pineapple on pizza
It's not a thing
You'll fall for the worst of them
And the best of them
But none will be perfect

Who the **** created perfect?
Mathematically,
It would be equal to infinity times better
It's like saying
Two parallel lines will meet
Or a zero will multiply itself over and over till it reaches a quantity
But actually, in what we feel and see
It won't, it's all abstract

Perfect doesn't exist
Prince Charming doesn't exist
But you can find someone
In whose pockets you can tuck your imperfections
And he can tuck it in yours
And you can be mismatching puzzle pieces
Trying to lock into each other
But not locking in completely
Trying to be of the same frequency
But varying in every other degree
You can be who you are, bare skin and bones
With each other but you'll never be
A fairytale or a happily ever after

His voice is like cotton candy
Like icebergs melting into waterfalls
Like the warmth that can ignite the sky
The soft sound of dandelions in flight

The metaphors and similies fall short
He can tell me that all I know is wrong
And I would still believe him

Behind closed doors and forgotten walls
Adorned with a garland around the frame
Is a black and white photograph of my grandmother
Worshipped each morning by my parents
You won't notice her if you pass by
But if you do, stop by and look
Her piercing gaze will remind you of all your sins
And make you wonder if photos actually have meaning
Her eyes will stare deep into mine
And tell me to talk, to make up for the conversations we lost
She will make you wonder what kind of a person she was
Did she want me to be who I am today?
Did she get stored in this photograph to remind me of her everyday?
Of a life lived long and the lessons learnt
Of the values and love that she holds
I talk to her sometimes
I'm partly amused at the stupidity
But partly intimidated by how her hidden presence
Tells me that I'll be fine no matter the circumstance
As long as she is there
Trapped in this photograph

The old man comes to the park every day
He walks with his left hand outstretched
******* poking out, waving in air
As if that's the imaginary walking stick
With which he controls and coordinates
He turns and his other hand slides up
His slender arms like a bird's wings
That flies him to places we cannot see
And many may call him mentally *******
But I say, he lives in dreams