Even under lockdown and quarantine,
The Poet's mind forever remains free.
Free of all earthly ******* and takes flight, -
To that ethereal land of poetry!
Nothing lasts forever in this world of
change and flux.
But poetry tingles my mind, gladdens my heart,
and elevates my soul,
Free from all our earthly virus!
                                       - Raj Nandy, New Delhi

Anything can
look like a poem
and sound philosophical
simply by moving
the words on
different lines.

Am I doing it right?
Is this
really
talent?
Art?
Effort?

I think I am trying.
Really, I am
I go back and change the order
and I break lines
where it sounds right
But it does not take me long.
Not at all.

I try to be
intentional
and call it natural rhythm.
Instinct and style taking over
I alternate between
agonizing every detail
like When to Capitalize
and publishing free form poems without looking over them twice.

How is writing supposed to feel?
Should I labor?
or should it flow?
Or do I get to decide?

I think the things I talk of
mean something
at least.

But am I just
pretentious?

fooling myself into thinking that
using common poetry formats
somehow makes my work worthwhile?

He doesn't burn photographs
He doesn't join therapy sessions
He doesn't smoke too many cigarettes
Nor he drown himself into alcohol
He scratches his wounds daily
And never let them heal
He doesn't try to get rid of the pain
Instead he let it grow on him
He waters the seed of sorrow with his tears
He feeds it with the manure of old memories
He takes it to sleep with him
And nurtures it in himself
Till the moment when every single drop of his blood gets replaced by this pain
Until his fragile heart can bear no more
And his soul starts overflowing with emotions
That's when he dip his pen into this pain
And empty his heart on a piece of paper
He bares his soul for us to feel
He creates poetry that the world would cherish for centuries to come

Are we equal?
this question has been asked several times,
and it will be asked several more.

If you were to ask me,
we aren't.
No one is equal,
because no one is the same.

If humans were equal,
then you could hire any one of us,
to do the same job.

Should we be treated equal?
Now that's a totally different question.
But still,
my answer is no.

If you were to treat,
a mentally handicapped person,
the same as someone who is not,
mentally handicapped,
it would be considered wrong by the general public.

This is why I say,
that humans should be treated with equity,
not,
equality.
This is also the #1 problem,
with the United States school system.

The quality of being fair and impartial.
This is the definition of equity.
When you treat someone this way,
they stand a fair trial.

But when you teach someone,
the same exact way,
and the same exact material,
that you teach to someone completely different,
it is unfair,
and it is partial.

Einstein once said,
"Everybody is a genius.
But if you judge a fish,
by its ability to climb a tree,
it will live its whole life,
believing that it is stupid."

In today's age,
every single person is expected to be a monkey,
and everyone that isn't,
is judged,
and ridiculed,
for being a fish.

What did I do to deserve this?
It isn't rhetorical, it is a literal question.
If I did something to receive this treatment,
then please tell me so that I can apologize.

I miss having original thoughts and ideas.
I miss being unaffected by societal standards and ideas.
I miss being who I am without having to apologize.
I am who I am, why can't that be enough?

I will no longer apologize,
that is the only thing that I am sorry for.

I am sorry,
that I can not transform into someone,
something you want me to be

I can’t imagine myself without my longing
call it infatuation or blind optimism
while my suitors may have changed, this feeling seems to follow me through the milestones
find me in the dead of night, breaking my own heart
searching for a hero

I find remnants of the dreamer I used to be in-between the mundane
twelve years old and my eyes had seen more than most will in a lifetime
but I loved with every fiber of my being
I loved the cities I'd never been to and the life I hadn't lived
and all the things I knew I was meant for with the sweetest ignorance for how to get there
you can find me underneath all the evidence of my surviving
my heart just as thirsty as the little ******* her bedroom floor

i want to tell you.
i really do.
i'd love to spill my secrets, my issues to you.
yet i can't comprehend it.
i can't communicate it to you.
and the fact you could leave me.
it makes my heart a tearful blue.
you already look at me as if i'm broken.
what do i have to lose?
i want to tell you.
i really do.
yet i can't cope with the fact.
the fact your presence may fade.
vanish without a trace.
except you'd still have that key.
the key that can unlock the darkness in my brain.