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The Missing Piece

I had a reading nook
Facing my garden of roses
A kitchen jammed with
Food of all kind –
Leftovers and wine.
My house built on a hilltop
Was secluded –
But offered a view
I could gladly snuggle with
Till my last breath.

However,
Valentine days,
Christmases and New years;
With every passing day
I was getting anxious,
Pondering about
The missing piece in my life…
Until one fine day,
When he showed up in my driveway
With a bouquet of roses
I didn’t grow in my garden.

I finally had someone
To cook for, to wake up to.
I had someone to share my pizza crust with
To cuddle with as we watched F.R.I.E.N.D.S on repeat.

Now I have the missing piece to complete the frame
An extra plate, tight dresses and more pillowcases.
I feel fuller than before
I am glowing, grinning foolishly
Admiring the love in making
Contented that
My story is now complete.

Social Mania

Hiding unshaved legs, not posting,
But selling oneself online
Poking innocents, criminals and
Cursing those away from the world wild web.

Caught up in a riddle
Called Social Media
I am fighting
My earthy poetic instincts.

Writing for the Tasteless
And the Classless
Divided by filters and human skin in a picture
Multiplied into hookups and scams.
Minus the debonair
Lies bubbling up in red hearts, retweets and likes.

Am I a hypocrite?
Writing for those online
And cringing to the faces I see every day?
Do I really want it?
What do I even want!
I keep asking myself.

The forlorn saga of a materialised writer

There is nothing to do,
Not even a fly in sight –
That I could invest my time
Running after it with a butterfly net.

It would escape and I did try to catch it again.
A hopeless and miserable version
Of Catch-22,
But at least I wouldn’t freeze my ass
From sitting straight for hours,
My ass print flattening the softness of the cushion
And making it difficult for my tenderness to exist.

It’s Cashville up here,
Work begins when half the world has moved on
And notifications pop up only when I’ve crossed the office threshold.
It’s free, and I love to be free…
But work never felt so numb…
Either I am secretly the destructor of own my dreams
Or maybe this is just not the place for someone like me.

@misfit_poetics

Hello folks!

Hope you guys are working your ass off and snoozing whenever you find a buffer in time.
I come bearing news… well, not much of a news but gratification and an invite to my pretty and sassy Instagram account, @misfit_poetics.
Link: https://www.instagram.com/misfit_poetics/?hl=en

Poetry is like wine. Not everyone got a taste for it. But those who do, I fancy them.
I joined WordPress seeking for a genuine community of readers, not fishing for false likes and or a pretentious fanbase.

You have been with me through thick and thin. Thank you for not unfollowing me. Thank you for reading my misfit poetics even when I couldn’t regularly go through the amazing art you make.

So with a grateful and gracious heart, I invite you to be my companion and reader on Instagram.

P.S. This way I get to see you more frequently.

Love, Him and Poetry

They say
Being a poet is about it all,
Knowing love
Inside-out.
And that makes me contemplate,
The forlorn rhyme
Forming a concoction in my head.
Am I a true poet?
Because the love I know of
Has come from the strangest land.

Love is him.
He is love.
He’s – this frenzy that I feel –
That I could –
And I would murder a soul for him
Without thinking about the cries
Or the carcass I would have to take care of after the blood dries.
Even if he goes all Bin-Laden or Narcos
I would gladly be his sidekick.
I wouldn’t mind running
From one state to another jungle
If that would mean,
I get to be with him.

Huh?
Did you hear me all this while?
This is what I am talking about!
Murder a soul? Bin-Laden?
Carcass? Narcos??
This is not the fancy love
Poets write about.
Mine is violent yet innocent
Tall, not blonde
And astonishingly, understands Love.

Love…
For me
It’s precious, priceless
What I have desired for, always.
But I am not quite sure
If this is it
Or just another state of mind
That I am passing by…
The love I know of
Is not the love I read about before
Or heard of.
His love is not what I’ve felt until he arrived.
It’s different, it’s new, it’s warm and much more…
It’s so sacred
That it scares the hell out of me.
What if I am not worthy of it?
What if… I am not worthy of him?

And that makes me contemplate,
The forlorn rhyme
Forming a concoction in my head.
Am I a true poet?
Do I know love
Inside-out?