What's reality
imaginary concepts
benefiting few

Everything is just right.
Everything is as it should be.
Everything is fine—

Even when it hurts.
Even when it heals.
Even when it doesn’t feel that way.

oh, the strong urge to be young again—
pinches my heart so deep within.
isn't it great being young?

oh, i still remember,
the knee bruises while playing,
such chaos has never appeared again—
isn't it great being young?

a child wouldn't mourn
for love, care.
world loves them.
everything appears fine until
they grow up.
isn't it great being young?

the child knows nothing,
neither the world nor the cost of living.
but, the joy in being;
happiness to them is inevitable.
isn't it great being young?

younger ones often get uplifted—
might own many hobbies,
perceived as an "over-achiever."
isn't it great being young?

the same child grows up, realizes
suffering is inevitable.
they deal with unfeasible expectations
for the world,
once an over-achiever, always an over-achiever.
younger ones never had it easy
isn't it great being young?

now, the suffering feels permanent,
while joy is temporary.
growing up, they realize—
didn't everything change?
so, is it great being young?

a younger child—akshitha.

Android City

The Guardian had an article about
Elon Musk's town in West Texas
The article was somewhat ill-willed
one got the sense of Android city
eerie and eccentric like the movie
The lesbian leaning Guardian and
Elon Musk doesn't see eye to eye
the article was not friendly

wet dirt
adhere to me
sand of the earth
mold me into being
your perfect being

(an inexistent being)

mother
nature
embrace me
allow me into your center
i will burn at your core
to become nothing
once more

Flowing across the page.
Everything comes to me at once.
The colors dance upon the paper.
Like a performance on a stage.

The only one in the audience is me.
Observant and thinking about the next step.
I am voiceless.
So I let the dancers speak for me instead.

As a voice for the voiceless.
They understand my heart.

Colors flowing across the page.

The colors dance upon the paper.

The only one in the audience is me.

Watching as it becomes alive.

Your face is my shame -- My shame is in your face
In every vibration emanating from your fragile neck

In every word from underneath your favorite pen
Each character sent by your adept fingers

Inside every careful footfall and each minute molecule of air
Shared inevitably in our proximity -- Inertia of past affinity

Every reminder of your unforgettable eyes
Your distinct frame grazing my field of view

Your presence is my guilt -- They cannot be split
As such I fear our only recourse is forgetful distance