these blog posts

are a bunch of sad things
that escape like bubbles
from in-between the toes
in a dream, where i lived
underwater,
looking up at your silhouette
leaning at the edge of the lake
fascinated by the water lilies

i want to read Rumi

just

the crow cleans its beak against the water pipe, almost merging into the background of the sintex tank.
the ugly buildings that's Kathmandu, catches the morning sun.
the leaves, laden in dust, squint.
Friday mornings are a deja vu

an attempt at poetry

you, with your wavy bangs,
like this morning opening up
with promise
of what might be
if nothing lasts
of life
of love
of lingering
you-
like alliteration
in your contrast-coloured clothes
and your large glasses
that remind me of my brother
you-
whose energy
is the memory of my girlhood
bubbling into laughter

you, silly girl with silly dreamy eyes,
come teach me poetry

Rant

of course, you know this is another dark morning of sipping coffee for me and waking up to work with the darkness staring back at me through the window.
i can never quite decide what it is i feel about these mornings. it's the only day of the week i see the dark break into day- and how i love that. it's my awakening from the rest of the days of the week, when by the time i wake-up, the sun has already clambered up the second storey of the house next door- mocking me over how my room receives no light.
these are also my mornings of re-living my inadequacies. desire, love, clingy folds, strings, seams, everything comes tumbling out, like i opened the door of the wardrobe that was over-stuffed with things. i don't want to be this person. but i am. i am looking at other people's genuine smiles and wondering how people can be happy. happiness. miti used to say anna and i fed on sadness for the sake of poetry. but it isn't even that anymore. it's not sadness. this is something else. sadness is beautiful. this that i am, isn't. it's bitter, contagious and will make people run away from me. miles.
i think i've become used to dwelling in misery and getting a high out of it. now i know how terrible that sounds. so be it.
now that i've arrived at the sweeter part of the coffee, at the bottom of the mug, things are actually not as bad as i make them out to be. because there are dogs. nursing their wounds, weeping over their eye sores, heal me a little. from dog to dog, my days transpire into a different world, that doesn't have poetry, but still survives.
poetry. i want to be able to write poetry with words like sliver, synapses and slips.but even poetry eludes me now. it's like i lost verse somewhere, between cribbing and becoming a person who doesn't know how to love.