I don’t write when I am happy.
I tend to laugh it out,
And imbibe the tears that roll
down the cheeks, down my heart.
One drop will hang as a dew
sticking to the chin, never drying out.
It doesn’t mean that I am sad
and full of dark worries at core.
Just one tear will make me cry
as one breath will make me laugh.
It’s all about my celebrations,
my life being a tale continuous.
I celebrate my laughs, my cries equal
and the tensile dilemmas spread across.
They are my own, part of my story
which give twists as never expected.
My birth was a twist, hope my death is one.
My life has a script different
with scenes of highest improbabilities
and dialogues the truest, yet unbelievable.
I get an identity, most scrambled
mixed as if in a mine of gold.
My body is with marks of history, clear
my leg with screw, my chin with stitch
my arm scratched with a brave jump
my finger with ‘fan’atic cuts,
my teeth with deviations of destiny
but my lips have the curves permanent
undefeatable, untouchable.
I fascinate myself with the unexpecteds
though fastidious in nature and lineage.
I linger in a world of my own,
writing my tears, oozing my joys,
searching for self in deepest voids,
seemingly arrogant, secretly loving
holding a romantic pure and hidden.
I smile madly, never so eccentric,
finding out the roses in my heart.
My words reveal to me a world inside
perfectly narrating my unknown emotions.
The feelings of fire well expressed
signed by a romantic, the part unrevealed.
I started to love, beyond my doors,
writing no names, but poems in lieu.
This is how I love my life,
this is how I tame my tears,
this is how I war my death,
this is I am what I’m…