Astonished as I was to find
being with me
makes you wanna be
a better person in life,
I couldn't understand why.
I don't want you to be a better man
because you have been one, all along.
All I can do is remind you
every time I find you hypothesizing, otherwise.
"Get a life."
"Live your life."
You’ll find these cotton-candy words
with centre-filled nostalgia,
freshly-glazed with empty calories and lies.
You’ll find ‘em in the next turn,
on posters, charms,
embedded in the hefty rants of blue-ticked
motivational imposters with a ‘DM Only’ profile.
Dreaming of chasing sunsets in a Blue Corvette,
red lips pouting about
with thighs thicker than my shake,
I’ve got a cabinet full of cotton candies
that's supposed to make me feel
like a unicorn in a field
of fat hogs and strays.
But the cavities in my mouth and
my body rejecting life is telling me otherwise:
Of their unicorn tears and cotton candy lies.
"Get a life."
"Live your life."
I've heard them say it too many times.
But nobody told me about
the larger-than-life, "Cash Only" sign
that stood between good times and I.
They told me all about it, alright.
But what they never mentioned
was the steady cash flow
that I couldn't let stagnate,
to keep chasing sunsets in a blue Corvette
wear the kinda Red that slays,
for ‘I-don’t-care-what-you-say' thighs
thicker than my shake,
I need many Alfreds to keep me fed, and
a master card that would
buy me all things sexy in plus size so,
I can feel myself.
Is possible only when you have enough money
to maintain a status-quo, a profile online.
Or else, you’re just a low-life.
Fat, ugly, obnoxious and not worth the while.
Show 'em your wad, join the squad.
That's how it's done in my lifetime.
Please, raise your glass of whiskey to this.
It's a good one.
I was working my ass off,
making my way up and up.
Higher than an eagle,
faster than a space shuttle.
But soon enough, it happened again.
And I rolled in the deep,
down the ditch.
Ain't a pretty scene:
Bruised like a banana,
breached and stitched.
Oh, the drama!
Like the cry of your Mama
over her beef with beef.
Served hot every night:
Spaghetti of guilt trips
Like mind-numbing poop
stuck halfway through,
coupled with constipation
on all things
that went wrong.
Raise your glass of whiskey
to this one, please
Life pulled down my pants and did it again.
Cheers, I am fucked. Once again!
Quite the preparation it was!
Tables and tables of food
smell of basmati,
garam masala, ghee
grief, pretension and flowers so many—
some of which I had never seen.
Quite the awakening it was!
The wake for Mom.
More so, the funeral.
They had gotten got us to funnel
one heck of a pig-out!
Everybody we knew and didn’t
It was quite the wake, alright.
Funny how, despite whatever the fuck
social norms dictate,
we never saw them after that night.
They ate, they burped, they left.
While we waited for our turn
to be awake.
We kept falling, instead.
Deeper and deeper everyday.
Losing her was,
and still is the nightmare
we live in.
We cry and cry and try
but it’s all too real, too related
to feel awake,
to feel alive.
Lately I have been drifting, restless
sightless, in this unsteady vastness.
Like ice caps, melting
spilling all over the sea.
I’m adjusting and re-adjusting,
my vision’s getting blurry.
The future I had mapped
not so long ago,
now looks so hollow.
I don’t see it.
I don’t recognise it anymore.
I am out in the open
but I don’t feel free.
All my hope, capsized
all my dreams, lost in some other time.
I see the dead
that once was a part of me
now sinking to the ocean floor
I am drifting, all alone.
struggling with the vastness,
searching for something steady,
for something to hold on to,
eyeing for the shore.