Against the common,
My emotions will speak
Why this cry, baby?
Tell me not that it is for the long eras
Of futile living. It is philosophical. Out of sense for you.
See how your parents smile,
With the doctor’s word:
“Your baby is fine.”
I know that you cry that you are out of risk.
I pity you baby,
I understand your cry. Solace.
I know that you are born with a smile,
Which you are made to forget
by the time of your birth: 10 pm, darkness, white bed.
Conventions scratch your being. Half an hour passed now.
Conventions are someone’s conveniences, baby,
Which don’t nurture humanity.
Do I sound philosophical?
I am philosophical with a birth certificate, thirty years old.
From here, you start seeing ‘society’-
A card tower hollow inside, regularly arranged. Neat outside.
I am dangerous enough to blow it down to play with you.
Do you mock at me, asking me whether I am God?
I’ll be a writer, rather, who knows no bounds.
My pen would write that ‘God’ is forgotten and is out of trend,
When gods come in plenty
And give all boredom being cliches.
Satan too is forgotten and out of trend,
When satans come in plenty
And build up the stagnation.
I see you confused.
I see you forgetting your smile, your heaven.
Don’t cry baby; be indifferent!
I loved it when I heard that you are in danger.
I pity it when the others smile hearing that
You are “saved”.
Every human is a sadist.
He doesn’t want anyone to “survive”
In real. You are but one victim.
Every life is a documentary
of how a human skull gets mutilated,
How the skin is made rosy red to later burn easily.
You’ll be carried till you get a rigid spine.
Then you’ll be taught how to bend it.
Enough for a parallel to the earth, for the society to carry you.
Do I speak dangers?
You say yes.
I say I am philosophical, with thirty year old certificate.
This poem got published in Tharamgini online magazine: