How many more sleepless nights?
Breathless I have really become
and my dreams no longer remain.
Crazy, I don’t remember any
brief clues of faces or moments.
It is hard to wake up every morning
realizing that I have turned a blind eye to
a very different world out there.
Out there, there could be love
where we could hold hands
and the lines on our palms fit
each others’ so perfectly.
Out there, there could be no identities
where we could be who we really are.
No judgments thrown, no one to hassle and frown.
Out there, there could be timeless peace.
No bombs hurled, and fleshes shredded
are only from lapse of heartbreaks,
seeking the scent and flavor of the ones departed.
But guess what? Once you stick your head out of
that normative sleep, reaching from unfathomable
distances down. A depth too far, where gravity lacks,
and self-inflicted imaginary misery racks.
To figure this out, I ruefully lost my sleep
and guess who turned out to be the horrendous freak?
I am glad that it was finally me. Real, rude and as human as one could be.
Let us all figure out what beauty is
from every untouched left out souls.
The lady who needs no gloss on her lips
definitely needs no swaying zero size hips.
I’d wish for an existence where everyone is blind
and look for beauty in all the nuances God left behind.
The girl without braces and crooked teeth
settled like pressed and unpressed piano keys.
The multi-tone syllables birthed from her vocal cords
are symphonies of her depth played in a melancholy chord.
The boy with a pair of squinted eyes
might look loony today, disguising all the lies.
What if the disoriented eye is to perceive the beauty in us
and it had stuck there with no hope and “crooked” thus.
The man with a regretfully withdrawn hairline
and a stubble of copper colored beard so fine.
Lost strands of hair tangled up in the blocked sink hole
are gossiping all about his troubles that murder him whole.
The snot of the kid that creeps up behind his joyous display
after a let out laugh that overpowers the cunning forms of dismay.
It is a proof of something that holds on to forever and now,
while the doubts are cautiously hanging in the stranger’s look of love.
The parts of beauty in this dreadful existence called life
are abundant yet they lack the shiny sharp of the knife.
If at all it was sharp and glowing with a sheen
I’d wish to cut all our hearts out to make the purpose clean.
The ugly stray dog, the half-electrified crow
and the imp who masters the circus show.
Man boob Bob and flat front Mary
might all be lovely on the contrary.
The rude judgmental choices we take
to look into beauty are illusive and fake.
And when the mirror reflects our ugliness in all
we should also think about the rusty nail that holds it on the wall.