The Poetry Marathon

“Opening

Closing”

“Opening

Closing” 

“Opening

Closing”

Playing hide and seek

with the cookie

that rests in an airtight jar.

Don’t you feel suffocated? 

Let me give you a home

in my tummy,

but then would you also betray me like my mother?

I cannot fit into the glass jar,

to accompany you.

It is already suffocating out here.

I too feel caged, not physically but you know the other way right?

Can I break you into two? 

One for my today,

one for my tomorrows.

How many personalities do you have? 

I have one that knows hunger.

and recognises the feeling of getting betrayal.

“Opening

“Opening

Cookie, your house door is so yellow.

No wonder why I always feel happy visiting you.

Why have you become so soft and mushy? 

Did anyone hurt you? 

You’re already broken.

Why did you lie to me? 

I thought you could serve me for thirteen days

Isn’t that what momma said?

She’s going out only for thirteen days?

I cannot fit numbers more than ten on my fingertips.

I don’t remember the sequence either,

Perhaps, thirteen comes before ten right cookie?

Do you also feel scared when I lay my hand towards you to grab you?

I am sorry Cookie.

I was just celebrating that I can open a jar

and take my things out by myself

I am a grown up boy.

I am no longer hungry, I am but heyyy… I am a grown up boy! Yes!

I remember mommy once said,

“once you grow up you no longer feel hungry, you only fill yourself to survive”

Speaking of survival,

I haven’t had anything, Cookie.

Am I going to clouds? 

I have seen people becoming stars.

But its not even an hour since I grew

Is mommy in the clouds? 

Cookie, even you have become like clouds.. Soft.. And unstoppable..

Closing the jar”

Closing the door” 

Bye Cookie, I am tired and I have seen grown ups sleeping like no one’s home.

I think, that’s what I am supposed to do till mother arrives.

She would return right? 

On a monsoon’s sunday morning

I woke up realising I have got laundry to do.

Piled up clothes, sitting on a chair, depressed?

As if they’re mocking me,

with a shirt’s sleeve crumpled hiding the buttons.

Exact the way I hide my conscience,

it is minimal but impactful.

Wish we had some sort of detergent too

for monthly- (ah? A month? Nope) weekly healing.

We all deserve fluidic companions,

on a sunday morning.

To hide our consciences,

their presence is like a scoop of liquid detergent,

all set to wash away our temporary worries.

I woke up seeing drenched funeral clothes

Why did you leave so soon, my mate?

I only surrender

to him

and silhouettes,

I wear white

as a promise

to myself.

In a world of terms and conditions

printed in black & white

I find white chaotic

instead of serene.

Perhaps, it has more

scope to get

printed in a colourful world.

Hi,

I hope you are safe and sound.

Speaking of sound,

this old age

is a payback

for all my nagging at you students.

I can no longer hear anything

but your words

and chaos is still in my memories.

Midnight dancing

with twelve personalities

of mine.

Mirror too confused

to create

the number

of vines.

I hide her

little comb

in a brown paper.

I see colourful

wraps getting

imported

in our country.

Poor my girl,

she finds comfort

in my darkened hands

cover with coal dust.

Art galleries filled with an afternoon sun,

too shimmery to be seen,

too daytime to be appreciated.

I wish, I could paint my insomnia,

and fit it into a dark frame

where it would die out of the habitat.

Like it murdered my sleep,

since these years.

I see similarities,

with the people

in the paintings

being fluent in contemplating.

Am I too caged in an invisible frame?

I ask myself.

Changing the palatte,

didn’t help.

How it would?

When I find comfort

in the dark.

Working 9 to 5

most hours

spent overthinking

and other

escaping

from the dimensions

of a colourful

screensaver

I misunderstood

the ‘saver’

in the virtual pandemonium

filled with colourful people.

To swim in your eyes is the desire,

perhaps the pathway to your heart is way too crowded.

Prompt 12:  Poem of descending syllables

Blurred Destiny

One fine morning, crisp mist gathered my

senses, mainly my vision got

blurred, forming a fragile lens.

Lens of prism, scattering

hallucinations 

of destiny

desired

once.