By Shubham Jain
I, am a melancholy guy, who fancy himself
to metaphorically represent; an ocean.
But never dares to disclose, what – this ocean,
is made up of: conflicts, it is.
I hate romanticizing my sadness, but the bottle drips, what's filled in it.
There's gloom in the sky; "Look, it's raining heavily.”
I taste my tears and dance, on the wet road of regrets.
Forgetting, I might slip again and make another mistake.
You cannot fathom, my sheer complexities of existence
in a world where; I don't belong.
Where wars are waged, to attain peace.
and the poor and weak, get looted by the rich & strong.
The world yells, "Run, run, run till you're out of breath or break your legs."
I prefer, walking, in silence.
Fearing the circle of Karma, you wear the mask of virtue.
You preach 'Live, Laugh & Love.’ but run after money.
I, in my own life seek, only – tranquillity.
“Zindagi me sirf sukoon ki talaash hai.” I often quote in my conversations.
I'm also very soft and sensitive to human suffering & joy.
I cry seeing both. I melt like ice in a furnace.
Quite contrary to patriarchal norms, delimiting men,
expecting them to be — tough, insensitive, masculine,
not allowed to exhibit emotions. I say, 'Fuck all these toxic notions.’
They've also told me, 'You're wicked & cunning'. I agree.
But, I'm also honest with all my lies.
I warn people of the circumstances, they'll face.
And if that's the case, it's not my fault, if they're dumb.
Or desperate for my embrace.
Writers who write about themselves, are bad writers.
I am one of them. But I don't drown in self love or loath.
I eat truth, only to spit it out. It's quite bitter, you know – to write about.