My mum said,"Son time you had a wife."
I said,"What's the hurry,let me first enjoy life."
But, she started looking for one,
My panic button was switched on,
I didn't want a desi wife like my mother,
Or simple middle class wives like the ones of my brothers,
Who treated their husbands as
Demi-God's,
Their masters, their Lords.
I wanted an ultra modern wife,
Trendy, ****, lovely and an equal partner in my life.
So I went against my family and married one,
I thought I had won.
I was head over heels in love,
She was my beautiful dove,
For several months life was paradise,
I felt nice,
***, theatres and parties.
Then the honeymoon  was over,
Of that I had surmised never,
I was tired eating out,
In cooking she was nought,
The house was a mess,
She cared less,
She was never at home,
And when she came she was drunk some.
Everything was not well,
My life had become hell,
I ended up at mum's for dinner,
I realised  dad and my brothers were in fact winners,
Loved and cared by their wives,
So much happiness in their lives.
With me my wife didn't want to stay,
So she ran away,
After my divorce I married again,
My heavenly life began,
My desi wife, mum's choice,
Lovely, homely and poised,
I, her Lord and she my Lady
Our married life very steady.

i want to clean
up
     this
            mess
                      and  
            start
        a
new
         page
                   but
                           they
                   say
          art
is
         when
                    you
                             feel
                     the
           most
naked
           most
                     vulnerable
           most
broken
             but  
                     if
                            i
                   pick
           up
my
        my
                shards
                               then
                      i'll
           just
bleed
          with
                    ichor
                               and
                     red
           wine
hues
           that
                     reach
                                  up
                      down
          below
on
        the
                 doorsteps
                                     of
                      death
         just
                  dropping
                                        by
                             to
               say
hello.

Did you see my ex
she looks like a mess
thrown back hair
and sweatpants
reminds me of the days
we spent in bed
longing to stay there
but knowing we'd eventually
fall apart

She's a mess,
A perfectly sculpted mess,
She's at war with her own self; for a man who was her first,
And those memories were still left untouched,
Cause she's scared it will tore up into pieces—like what he did to her heart,
And she knows that it's not healthy,
So she did what everyone told her;
Moved on, buried him, threw him, kicked him out of her life.
But no honey, there are still pieces of him left,
Cause it's too hard to let go,
Not because she still loves him,
It's the memories that hold her up—and keep telling her, "we were together".

What the f*ck is this generation called?
It is WhatsApp, Twitter and Facebook generation
All these are messaging app
Yes! This explains the mess age
The age of social mess
We call it #MESSAGE...