The screeching sound of the rusting door,
Is the old enviable memories.
Yet I see the opening door.
Getting squeezed in a thronged train
And losing my ring,
I am stumbling to look down and search for it
Neither to blame someone.
Where I’m obligated to get down perplexed.
The few seconds of rain bedeweding my head
Where the mucky soil grimes my foot
Leaving many parts untouched.
My life is
the egressed rice
Around his lips
Which his little finger kicks the ass off remorselessly.
Yes, I’m the grayed tulip
Among a few beauteous looking ones
Tweaked by a school girl
Craving for a glance since the moment she plucked
But even it’s death is left unperceived.
I’m the awkward burp in between the perfect kiss which ruins everything perfectly.
Life is imperfect
Just the way
Water in the ocean
touches only my toes
Leaving the entire foot longing for it.
Yes it’s perfectly imperfect
Like my poem seeking for the words which is falling apart every single day
As the browny leaves shedding off the trees hopelessly
It is imperfect just like the voidness
in my head trying hard to obtrude the unwanted memories.
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