In divine school there is a boy who does blare
The horn of indiscipline all over the school bare
Met me very day when I furiously did glare;
Felt though sad and bad, moved a bit with prayer
I intended to sing for him to change without spare.
Kabir is that boy who was found on hostel stair -
Roaming and singing and running like a hare.
Moved by ‘No one is lift behind’ by me. “Beware!
You have to be careful.” I used to say at square.
Now is the time, when he has changed a lot by flair
Which he had in him – half known to him I swear.
Then was the naughty boy, one of the corsair –
Now is the sincere and calm though not so clever.
Will take his father’s and mother’s good care;
I know that in future he will be a successful bear
Who may forget me but I will never to such mare.

Life has been never so humorous
It is also not so rancorous;
It is full of injuries and pus,
We have been troubled by cuss.
But life, my dear, is not sonorous;
It is much largely murderous.
Teachers care for all future fuss.
All teachers care for dangerous
Children who lead life glamorous.
Teachers are always right rigorous,
Who will guide against vaporous,
And are strong and tall like coniferous.
They like great Shivaji, truly valorous.
Teachers care for all future fuss.
Follow them Oh! ye malodorous;
And they will fill you with flowers.
Teachers care for all future fuss.

BLACK?
Black cat?
Curse...
Black colour?
Known as bad...
But what about the Black Board?
It makes the student's life Bright
Everything has two perspectives look onto the positive side.

I wish to be a single unit.
I want all of my body to contain my
vibrancy
I do not want to feel restrained by
my anxieties.
This unit will work together
a full microbiome
a complete structure
good-enough in nature
keeping you alive.
self-efficacy,
a concept I'd love to measure.
blood levels, stress worksheets, therapist visits,
drugs, anti-depressants, side effects
things i can measure.
Biology,I get it,
but intrapersonal connections?

You’re a Monday child, born on the first day of the week--
the weakest link--
You’re like the moon.
You’ve got nothing to give--
the sharp darkness of your crescent is someone else’s shadow,
and your light is nothing but the reflection of something bigger
and brighter than you.
You’re a disappointment child,
potential building like the Tower of Babel,
everyone telling you that if you had just tried hard enough,
then you could have touched God.
But you’re just a Monday child,
an extrovert who runs up the electricity bill by leaving on
all the lights when you’re home alone,
how even with your earbuds in you leave the TV on.
Pretending to be near people who are alive makes you feel a little less like you
already died a long time ago.
Darkness doesn’t take days off and
neither do your thoughts, so
wrap yourself in stars.
You want to find light in the constellations but
it’s hard to trace lines between dots behind fog.
Mondays are longer on Mars.
You were born with stress in your veins, heaping projects with no real due date,
in a constant state of waiting for Friday,
but weekends are for the weary,
and the taut line of your spine implies that you
don’t deserve a break.
The thing about Mondays is that they’re crushing,
filled with longing,
the way that you only feel homesick when you look up at the moon and her fraud light.
You wrap yourself in nebulae and galaxies to try to
keep the homesickness at bay while you sleep.
Nothing will ever be good enough.
You will never be good enough.
You are a Monday child, a bitter aftertaste of someone else’s loss,
like you’ve smiled too brightly at a stranger leaving a funeral home.
You dug your own grave a long time ago.
Your eyes are clouded with looking too far forward, stretching yourself backwards,
hanging onto the aftertaste of the weekend while living for the next.
You hang like laundry,
brittle in cold wind,
the step between that no one likes to linger on.
You were born on a Monday.
But your eighteenth birthday fell on a Wednesday,
your sixteenth on a Sunday,
and you are more than a desperate reach for empty space.
The Tower of Babel did not touch God.
You are not here for someone else to tell you to touch God.
You are not here for someone else.
You may be a disappointment child,
with your Monday fog eyes and shaking hands,
but sometimes you have to choose your own joy over someone else’s expectations--
because I was born on a Monday,
and poetry comes easier than physics but nothing
calms me down quite like solving differential equations.
I was born on a Monday,
and I’m used to looking at other people’s faces and seeing disappointment
because I don’t think I'm quite what any of us wanted me to be.
I cling to the past the way that Monday clings to Sunday,
but daydream about the future like it’s Saturday.
The problem is Tuesday through Friday, because
nothing quite makes me want to die like the concept of
planning out the rest of my life.
I think I’ll be alright, though,
because on Monday nights I look at the stars and think that
I might be figuring out how to feel alive,
like maybe home is in the constellations that I still don’t quite know.
Maybe home is in the Mondays,
or maybe it’s in the weary camaraderie of humanity’s ability to cling to weekdays.
Most days, I have to remind myself that this is just the beginning,
simultaneously relieving and daunting,
because I’m scared of the future and I’m scared of being disappointing.
I’m a Monday child, born under a full moon that feels like home
whether I’m looking at it from Jamaica or Germany or Kansas City.
Chaos comes with the start of the week,
and losing myself has always felt comforting:
that’s the only time when I have no one else to be.

A life model
stands bare at the core
of an easel mantle.
She wears her skin
like a flattering summer dress
and I wonder
if she even knows
she's naked.

I transfer her body
to paper
in a hundred charcoal swirls,
suspended evermore
in a breath of smoke.
My teacher says
my style suits me,
and I suspect he's right.

They're alive,
and full of vitality
he tells me,
comparing them to my other,
more refined drawings
and I feel myself
wanting to cry.

I try
to refine my life,
and myself,
as I do my models.
To be contoured
and controlled.
To be precise
and safe
as geometry.

I unfold beneath the frustration
of my clumsy form.

My hands cannot obey
to a command
my heart does not give.

But my heart commands acceptance,
and who am I to deny?
So I must abide,
and learn
to wear my messy heart
like a flattering summer dress
rippling in winters gale.

Sewing buttercups
into a storm.