By Dr Omkar Churi
I tried to kill him.
He was insanely happy,
A complete misfit.
Too happy for this world.
I had to do it.
Worried about the world
Concerned about a butterfly.
He would laugh at himself,
For others, he would cry.
I bullied and hit him,
Broke his bones with all might.
He did not learn a bit from this
And stupidly continued to write.
One day, he told me his wish
Which I did not find funny-
That he would one day rule the world
And “happiness” would be money.
I tried to mock him, yet,
Of which no notice he took.
For him, I felt sad and enraged
Then I hit him with his own book.
He lay there, flat and motionless,
So I took him to the theatre (OT)
Happily cut open his head,
For worse... or, for better.
As he woke up on the table
And sat there grinning,
I knew he was a “losing battle”
But the fool was winning.
So I stabbed him in the chest,
With his heart my target.
Ripped it out of his chest,
And hoped he had met his fate.
He kept laughing, the fool he was
Then started humming a song...
Sang of happiness and hope
And I realised what was wrong.
The idiot was a poet...
For this world, a misfit true...
For he simply had no brains,
But hearts he had two!!!
P.S. : Can a ruthless surgeon ever be a sensitive poet?