By Abhishek Peri
How did you think that I'm love, you freak-
The angry-coloured, tenacious pump?
You put whatever words in my mouth,
Which might've died in your throat, a lump,
But morph into the truth when I speak.
You give me credit for weird things-
Things made by the brain's electric flesh,
Pink with the power of genesis.
And I've no reason to use its mesh;
I make my own spark and strings.
I am efficient-not love or pain.
I don't allow equilibrium.
But death always tries to make us equal.
Warding it off, I beat myself numb-
Your loyal fascist who fills and drains.
You often need me to hasten flow.
As you do in life, I run reckless.
I'll keep running till we're both burnt out.
With no break, we must grind through stress-
We're chasing the rainbow's end, we know.
Other times, I slacken my paces,
Like you do when you're melancholy.
Six days you drag yourself out of bed,
We repeat our own echo slowly-
That one day, we'd be going places.
Keep up the crawling till you stagnate,
Hanging on the last unbroken string
Of the guitar that played your favorite song.
I'll worsen till I can't play my strings-
Till our gravity can't hold our weight.
Even if I'd want to skip a few,
I never will-like you can't skip days.
The sky will fall if Atlas falters,
Regardless of what your brain will say.
If I ever stop, then so will you.
Bedroom, living room, kitchen and bath-
I cycle through four chambers as well.
Wherever we go, we always return.
I can't feel things, but I know you well-
We both must walk a similar path.
My freak, that's why you thought I was love.
I'm not love-you learn to love from me.
You took it from its cerebral source
Long ago, and tucked it into me,
For I'm the best bearer you thought of.