That world is not mine
yet I bask in it.
I cry and laugh sometimes.
All so real
but it’s deception.
To yearn to touch
but falling short of the warmth.
It briefs me on what I want to have
while staying on the side-lines,
All the ****** time.
It keeps on rolling
as my time passes by.
And my tears pearl-down
And my grin turns wide
And my heart’s in a riot.
That’s what happens-
when I look at a
lmaoo watched too many good films.
I have not worshipped them far and wide.
I have not preached what I have learned.
I have not fasted for a thousand nights.
I have not helped more than I have hurt.
I have not done what I should have.
I have not longed for visions.
I have not had revelations.
I have met the poor begging for food.
I have witnessed people turn them away.
I have seen people loving so passionately.
I have heard of the dacoits threatening to ****.
I have read the books preached by the leaders.
So I conclude I have met god, whoever that might be.
With velveteen curtains and a table of gold
sat an old hag with stories untold.
Kids scurried along the marble path
as they escaped her ferocious shihtzu dog.
Filthy men passed one-liners
about her polished growl.
She played hoarse music on her platinum harp
and sang along verses of outcasts’ tarp.
She read out loud stories
banned by the elders in the ancient market.
She lured and polluted little children’s minds
with her ideas and little schemes.
Yet the townsfolk let that damsel stay,
for she was an old hag who could do magic.
With their minds did the magic play.
The populace attempted to play with her tragic
mind in the hope that they could do magic too.
Stealing bits and pieces of information about myself from people I don’t know.
They tell me that I have my grandfather’s eyes or that I behave like my uncle when he was young.
I look for these parts, these broken pieces I lost. I don’t know when I lost them, though.
An aunty I meet will tell me that she heard I was good at geography. I don’t like geography. Or do I?
Don’t blame me for trying to find the shattered pieces of the mirror in which I hope to see my reflection.
But deep down I know even after I find all these shards, I won’t see a reflection of myself.
Because I won’t recognise the glossed over person in mirror.
ugh this isn't a poem.
Shadows are impersonations.
They move around
In the sneakiest of ways.
Lurking and inching and cheating.
Trying to escape the mirror.
The darkness died when the hero won.
It just followed them, lurking to get back.
The core is darker of the fake.
because they tell them of the time gone by.
the color died, it lives in the real world now.
I don’t have a shadow.
I am one.
I’m stuck on the verge
of meandering outside
or wandering inside all the time.
I need to know if the sun shines
and if the moon still glows.
I haven’t seen the stars in a while.
The trees are in disguise,
and leaves don’t fall down by my side.
I haven’t stepped outside.
I need to know if my lungs pump out air
and if my brain still responds to stimuli.
I haven’t visited my heart in a while.
The emotions are in disguise,
and tears don’t fall down my eyes.
I haven’t stepped inside.
My eyes have been searching for a place to call home.
I have been to Rome and have done what the Romans do.
I have failed to win a place amongst the ranks of caesars.
I have felt the harrowing escapism of not being at home.
I sit inside the colosseum and work in the communes.
I look for a place to reside, as I sway through.
I curse and beat myself up for not being homely.
I walk in the darkest alleys calling it my home.
I said bought the elephantine houses.
I said that I played with the kings,
though I only washed their feet.
I did not feel at home.
I search for belonging,
in my own heart.
Is it good?