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Riddhima Jun 2018
Thirty three years Alexander lived
Shakespeare wrote his tragedies
the teacher near our house dhoti turned twice
still ***** with yesterday's mud
goes for another regret
what am I doing?

The play was staged
clowns and faces with paint
their age twenty
The man next door
his face well known
for the cycle he drew across the world
where am I here?
The lunatic
in house arrest wants to breathe
showing the foolish thumb
to people on lanes
but what am I doing?

What am I doing? Doing what? Doing what ?
Till half past three into the night
the question haunts my ribs
A inadequate path, oozing with men flood
but all headless clouds
Am I one in them?
All my life I have been placing this head
The weared out head of mine
In one body
in another
Trying to look into the mirror
On which body does this head of mine
look like me
the word dhoti used in this poem is a garment worn by male Hindus, consisting of a piece of material tied around the waist and extending to cover most of the legs.
xmxrgxncy Mar 2017
Peeling away layer by layer, I'm slowly becoming whole.
Wrapper after wrapper- will someone eat my candy heart when there's nothing left to hide it?
I'm so exposed, so open; the breeze wafts between layers, shaking them loose, and they waft to the ground like leaves.
Will this edifice be strong enough to stand on its own?
Built out of feeble candy cigarettes and held together by pink bubble gum, it's already been chewed up and spit out, more wrappings being formed to protect its' already collapsing structure.
Will it survive?
Will I survive?

— The End —