A poem of irritation,
poetic rant, if I may?
Family throbs on your head about marriage,
and you just came from work with rage.
Rage not at anything in general,
and everything at once.
Your hair hasn’t stayed very well,
and you prefer to be left alone,
in clothes that are twice your size,
with thoughts that are eight times louder.
What would you not do to get a glass of wine?
Why should Dia the wine be so unfavourable to your ‘tradition’
They should possible make it a mandatory drink for Indian milennials.
It is cheap and sweet.
Just how we wish our life was to be.
Are poems only an excuse?
Excuse to be butchering the very core of grammar?
Shakespeare got away with creating his own language,
Won’t I ever be liberated from such thoughts?
And from the harsh summer heat?
As I finally get a whiff of Mom sauteing my favourite vegetable,
I wonder why the mind is so wavering.
How easy is it to please it and displease it.
Wouldn’t life be simple-er if I were a bat,
Staring at the stars.
A bat that has vision.
You see being a human I am conditioned,
to be extraordinary.
Can’t expect the conditioning to leave just because I wish to be another specie?
P.S. I have successfully turned this blogs into ‘rants’ that are marketed as ‘thoughts’.