Confession of a cheater

I have talked thousand times,

With you

In my head.

I know how this gonna end.

So I pretend

To be something else

Someone else.

So when you forget

That I exist,

It would not be me.

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A song

In a crowded Street,

Thousands of unrecognizable voices,

Chattering, shouting.

You sometimes find some old songs,

Inaudible, yet somehow you can listen to it.

In present,

The song is stuck,

The song, fragment from the past.

Unaware of this zombie crowd, 

Going nowhere.

I think our present is stuck too,

In someone’s future.

A good night note

“I like you”

A guy said over messenger.

So many people said the same thing,

That it doesn’t mean anything.

I never liked when people like me anyway.

What’s there to like?

I am stuck with life,

I have nothing.

I would rather prefer someone says,

“I don’t like you.”

“I don’t like how stuck with everything you are,

I don’t like that you don’t have a job,

And living depending upon people,

Kills you,

I don’t like how you are caged,

And Never seen ocean, or beach,

Or mountains, Forests.

Your life is so like a desert

That you haven’t seen a desert before.

I hate you.

I hate you for all of the things you are doing,

To yourself.”

Because if you like me now,

You don’t like me at all.

You like my golden cage. 

And Inside I am dying.

A proper word

Some times,

I want to write something

But I can’t construct words.

Like now,

I was thinking something,

But I don’t know how to put it in words.

Like I woke up from a dream

And I know it was beautiful,

I can remember it

But I don’t know how to remember it.

What state that is?

Then,

You meet people

Who easily understand you.

And some don’t.

And when people do understand,

The story ends.

There isn’t anything to think about,

Worry about.

But some,

When its hard to have a conversation

And in silence you wonder,

What word to say,

How to express

How to make them understand.

It stays in head.

Without any proper words.
Few days later, I will not remember this moment

But it will stay,

Some words,

Which not even a fat dictionary can store

Some words,

Born and died in my thoughts.

Dead trees

There is a house fly, 

On my leg.

Half flying half Walking

From my calf to thigh,

Sometimes on my chest.

But there is this t shirt I am wearing,

I could say,

That he can smell me rotting,

Just some chemical reaction keeping me young.

And he is waiting.

 His food,

In a slow cooker,

On an oven fueled by time.

And my flesh,

Years of coated happiness made it hard.

The house fly knows it all,

Thought we both could wait for my death,

But he had to go,

For better food.

And I am back again,

Alone,

With room full of people, 

And dead trees,

We call books.

I think they are more alive.

Blackhole 

Come back for me.

Not to my flesh,

Or wits.

Not to the moments we already spent,

Or the versions, 

We made up in our head.

Not to our favorite places,

Clutching the coffee cups,

In a coffee shop,

Holding our cigarettes.

But as a new memory.

I am stuck, 

In a place where spring only exist

In gift shops.

Come back to me,

With a map of four seasons.

In my home,

With full of awkward silence.

Come back if you ever need to be alone.

Like a blackhole, 

we will swallow each other’s time.

And then when you are back,

To the Galaxy full of glittering stars,

A part of us will be safe,

Part where we had spent eternity,

Eternity which won’t even exist.

Here,

Time does not exist.

Comfort

My bathroom is full of fiction.

The wall is my man, 

And I stare at him.

There is an iron cage,

Where the bathroom window is caged,

That’s my mountain,

I climbe there.

When I was a kid,

I used to block the drain,

So the bathroom floor will be my bathtub.

My mum dad never bought me a bathtub,

Saying that’s an waste of water.

Will that’s the reality,

Let’s not go there,

Now its time for fiction.

The man in my bathroom, 

He has no face.

It’s better that way I guess,

You don’t have to remember him,

But he will always be there,

When I am tired, or dirty

And need a shower.

Need a place to get naked, and lean on.

Its better that my man, doesn’t have arms.

Comfort makes me rigid,

Like I am gonna lose it all.

I had a friend, 

Who didn’t like comfort too.

Heard he died,

In a hospital bed.

To much comfort killed him I guess.

But then again, that’s the reality.

I have to go out now,

It’s time,

I leave the fiction.

Stone paper scissor

You know,

The easiest gift you can give me

Is a diamond ring.

You will just go to a shop,

Give your corporate credit card,

Buy the biggest stone.
And the hardest one,

Would be a book.

You don’t know what I already have,

Or If I am going to appreciate the book,

If I even love the writer 

Or find him the pathetic one,

Is that even my genre?

That would be such a waste

Of trees who died for paper.
Or you can give me my favorite tool,

You know how that looks,

But broken,

You know how much I love it,

Try to find it everywhere,

Desperately fix it without hope.

No other model or versions gonna fit

In my hand that proficiently.

You can give me my identity,

Which will cut anything and it will be an art.

Even the way it stayed in my hand,

Was an art 

Or madness

My favorite scissor.
Old game you know,

Play to win,

Losing doesn’t even mean anything.

We are just passing time,

Playing stone paper scissor.

Neil Gaiman

While waiting for an auto,

At Rashbehari avenue,

I realized how much I hate the street.

I have always hated it.
Decades ago,

When that street meant nothing but only shopping,

And my doctors,

Or sometimes my uncle’s office.

And I knew I couldn’t breathe.

The air is so heavy.

The cars are even tired

Of exhaling black smoke.

All the old trees stuck there for life time,

Even a monsoon can’t give them enough hope.

And all there left is,

Shopping.
I thought I hate shopping.
Back home,

On my bed I found it.

My Online purchased euphoria,

“Fragile things”.

Wildflowers

I could smell it.

The sweet smell of Death,

Of my favorite tree.

I am glad I fought for this window seat,

In a train full of people 

Stinking of misogyny.
I don’t know it’s name,

The tree is unknown to me

And the flowers, 

Wildflowers they all said,

It itches.
Those dead trees, beside the rail road,

Seemed fresh.

Like it didn’t die at all

Maybe trees never die anyway.

They become fire,

Bed, doors.
Warmth,

Sleep,

Condor.