Frame

This body is like a frame
Our souls are the paintings
Like the one we see In the art gallery,

The frames are usually made of glass, wood, or maybe cheap plastic
Yet handling the soul made of soil
With depth of honey and
Burning sensation of coal.

our soul fights everyday to come out of the frame, almost everyday to scream and breath and lie down on the green grass of our lawn and gaze at the open sky,
Only to realise, Maybe the frame is not just a frame but a maze of karmic connections.

There are endless reasons for us to remain in the maze
Yet we need just one to be out of this world...

Eventually the body is yet again just a frame within the frame.

What am I?

What am I? 
I thought for a while,
So,when people started detaching, I started attaching myself to them.

When people talked of love as pain and loneliness as treasure, I started cheering for love loudly.

When people stopped trusting , I started putting my trust in everyone.

When everyone believed in irrationality, I vowed to maintain my sanity.

What is normal to you is normal to me except what's abnormal to you is also normal for me.

I ain't a saint or a sinner. I am not divinity , just a human.
Mere human.

At last if you ask
Who am I ?
A paradox is what I conclude.

Stay

I want to copy the lines of the pinterest poet here, 
As he is the one who romanticized the world for me,
For he told me it's good to be awake late nights,
To write my thoughts, inappropriate yet thoughts here.

What he forgot to tell me that romance is nature ,
A movement of early 19th century curated by poets like PB Shelly, John Keats and ofcourse Lord Tennyson .
My trembling fingers touched the 'Ode to the west wind','Ode to the Autumn'.
Oh! How could I forget Porphyria's lover.


Words should flow as Woolf has said,
Yet Mine are reluctant to come out .
Is it that difficult to utter the word,'Stay' , at 4.30am ?




3 AM

Image courtesy- Pinterest – cityyart7

Love,
It’s 3 am, you are asleep but I can’t close my eyes.
Woken up for a long time, what should I do?
I thought for a while and then a thought sprouted and
I imagine you talking to me,
Talking?
How many days has it been since we last talked? Had a conversation?
Well, we have been avoiding “The Conversation” since 2019.
Yet you are peacefully asleep in other Country, other state, other city and
I am wondering when the sun rays will strike the window panes and I won’t regret that all the metaphors, similes,  and imageries elude me at this time of night when I hold my pen to write to you of my loneliness, sorrow I feel each day spiralling round and round engulfing my heart and soul in its loop deep.

Before I am stuck in the loop, I got up and drenched my hair in cold water, searched about the hair care remedy, read poems and yet it’s just 3.20 am.

Overthinking? No! No! No!
I have learnt a trick of wearing the elastic band on my wrist,
Already pulled it twice.
Ah! It’s going to be a long and tiring night.