Sand in water

That moment, I walked closer to the sea

And you kept screaming come back

Scared I may fall

Scared you may die

If you follow me any more steps

And I knew

I belong to the ocean

Not you

That moment, We came back

To the city of bricks and asphalt

And we hold hands

Closer we can get

Fearless with fear of coming out

And I found my ocean

Crashing

Far away

Fearless as it is

A fire always end up

In ocean

Burns bright like thousand suns.

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A good sex

I don’t want any of us

To be good

In bed

I want the clumsiness

In love

Where We joke

About our cramped muscles,

Awful flavoured condoms

Which we won’t ever try,

Your erectile dysfunctions

Out of stress

Or my pms

And we end up snuggling each other

For the next day

Marriage as I see it

What’s the difference?

I asked myself in agony. The pain was sharp I guess and I am too tired to try. As what difference will it make?

Rich housewives, educated mothers of toddlers, my new students of new college, another new batch. But what’s the difference?

Learning for pocket money as husbands are are sole provider for family. The proud declaration, “my husband earns enough” but the glitch, the glitch is there of truth covered well underneath stigmas. It needed a little push. But as I said, tired I am.

One of student from another batch had to let go all, career, job, she studied fashion design decades ago and forgot everything being in the role of housewife. I have seen her pain, her lost years bled enough she is anemic now of creativity.

Rich, poor, all fell in the dark pit of being housewives I guess, from city to village, from mud houses to proud air conditioned duplex apartments of husbands money, what else they can do? But be plastic proud of their certain psychological paralysis.

I have always hated the idea of being a housewife, do we call them bus husbands, train husbands, road husbands, or office husbands? Do we call them money husbands? I have hated the changes women have to go through, and they willingly do so.

Will a man for me stop working because I don’t want him to work just to earn money and buy unnecessary stuffs to make our room full and narrow our space down. Why not though? Whats the difference?

Its not a lovestory.

It goes step by step

The process of separation

First you stop hugging

Tight breast to chest

Then you stop touching

Holding hands

Like no space in between skins

Then you stop waiting

For words exclusive

No one shares

And in the end

You stop waiting

For a general good night

Or

A simple good bye

And in few years time

You end it

With a

Hi.

Its not a lovestory.

It goes step by step

The process of separation

First you stop hugging

Tight breast to chest

Then you stop touching

Holding hands

Like no space in between skins

Then you stop waiting

For words exclusive

No one shares

And in the end

You stop waiting

For a general good night

Or

A simple good bye

And in few years time

You end it

With a

Hi.

Sadness, from the beginning

I am sad now. And I think sadness is vice versa, and It kind of go like this, lets say, I started working someplace new, and people I cared they didn’t ask where. Like it doesn’t matter. They didn’t ask how is it going, obviously. They didn’t ask anything.

And then I didn’t tell them I am working too, so probabilities are they are sad too.

Then again I would have said if they asked previously how was my life going, when I couldn’t sleep, buried in depression and anxiety. And almost had killed myself in process.

I think they would have asked me if I mattered.

And I think I should have known that I don’t.

And they should have not acted like they do when I wanted to go away.

And yes of course.

I should have gone away. I should never have been there anyway.

A love letter well hidden.

The worst thing about a day is it never comes back. The best thing about a day is it never comes back. And I have seen a monkey with a lions face. In reality far away from my despair, plastic park of joy with dusty sling, was closed forever. Today I slept better. I will name you insomnia in future if you were ever born at all.

Brief history

Long story short,

Possiblity is I am not even real

Maybe I am an idea

Of a hallucinating mad man

With a pen

Or a dream of a bastard child

Never new her name

Stuck in the attic of despair

About to hang herself

Long story short,

I am a burglar

I steal ideas of innocent minds

Some photons from the sunlight

Some darkness from the singularity

And cook it in steamer

With salted wound

Wounds aren’t mine.

Expiry date of poop in stomach

I would have eaten you like a biscuit

Which my mum has served

With the tea

From the jar of expired dough

Dried a long time ago

Or the home made pickle

Covered with fungus

My mum said nothing will happen to them

They eat bad food

I think they do

I have a bad stomach

And worse appetite

I only eat bad words

Did I tell you

I have a poo problem too

Stuck in my stomach

Those words

Had killed me two hundred and fifteen times.

And here I am.

Time management

It happened,

The house lizard got smashed

In window fold.

I forgot to wash

The yellow drop of piss

On commode.

That black t-shirt missed

The bird shit supposed to hit

The top left corner

Three inch down from shoulder seam

And 6.45 centimetres from armhole.

It all happened

Because you are three seconds early.