My metaphors are tantrum kings.
They come to me with rolling eyes,
Entitlement in twitching thumbs,
Attention skittling every time
Their boredom threatens to emerge.
They breathe a “hmm” or simply sigh
Without intention to abide
By any task I set them to.
They do not join me at my desk.
They do not want a daily job.
They simply want to quickly rise
To top of someone’s Google search,
Be printed on some custom merch,
And bask in found celebrity.
This too shall pass, I tell myself.
Exactly zero thoughts of mine
Are mine in all entirety.
In fact, I find it very hard
To zero in on any part
Of any thought that may be mine.
The best that I have done so far
Is phrase a thought a different way.
And, in a way, that’s good enough.
Longevity embeds itself
Inside the nerves of stubborn minds
Who cling to life with phantom hands
Through charges firing in the brain
That cannot travel down the spine.
He’s in again. He’s out again.
He’s got the hang of comas now.
They asked me as a marketer
To spend their cash to “make a buzz.”
I slid open my window glass
And made them sit in traffic noise.
They looked at me, I looked at them,
Until they did not look at me:
It’s hard to look at anything
When all your focus has to go
To swatting buzzing mosquitoes.
The sin of Pride’s a summer fad.
It always comes before the fall.
Before semesters start in school,
Before awaited shows return,
Before reality combusts
Your holiday shenanigans.
Successes slip and habits break
And fortunes boomerang away.
The beach-tanned body’s out of shape,
Romantic flames are doused in rain,
Promotion gives you vertigo,
And Mastery demands its bills.
You’re left with highlight reels and pics
To see and show again and oft
Throughout September evenings
To few who still express their love.
You Sloth into a helpless Wrath
Against the ones you Lusted for,
Denouncing them for having Greed
For things they got but you did not.
Of course, you do not Envy them —
Preposterous of me to claim.
You’re simply eating humble pies
With Gluttony of victimhood.
Before I knew the word Guru,
I knew my Jejema was mine.
Her simple, grandmotherly words
(When not accusing everyone,
Or not complaining, grumbling, rude)
Were always dripping wisdom pearls.
I still preserve a memory
I have from baby cradle days.
(Or maybe it was later on
And now my mind is playing tricks.)
I had a plastic pointy star
Suspended from my cradle’s arch.
I tried to grab it, never could,
No matter how I stretched my arms.
And even if a fingertip
Would lightly tilt it to my side,
It quickly slid and rocked away
So much further from my reach.
Frustrated, I would kick it out,
And teasing me, it swung to me,
To only swing away again
Before I clutched my fingers tight.
She saw me do this all the time –
This constant game of pull and push –
And one day, smiling, spoke to me
In what I’d come to call her “voice”:
“It’s fruitless trying to control.
Attachment, pulling, takes away.
Avoidance, pushing, thrusts your way.
And such is life, my little one.
Remember this in everything.
I saw it late. You saw it now.
I hope someday you’ll understand.”
On nights as this, I ask of You
The courage to be happy too,
To surf above the frothing blames,
To lotus-leaf the nasty names,
To do what only I can do,
To stay, to act, to build anew,
To make it through another night.
And then a night. And then a night.
As you sow, so you reap.
Be thankful if it turns out so.
For, if you really think on it,
It is your best scenario.
You could have sown in barren soils.
You could have sown in rainless years.
You could have sown before a flood
And hanged yourself on unshed tears.
A songbird pecks, an insect drills,
A neighbour steals, you pay the bills.
Remember, if you reap at all,
You could have had the worst befall.
Irrational?
Perhaps, it is.
Emotional?
Of course, it is.
Intentional?
So far, it is.
Professional?
Not sure it is.
It’s who I am.
That’s what it is.
It’s easy to catastrophize.
In fact, you think it’s even wise:
“The world’s about to go to shit.
It’s full of crooks, and thugs, and cheats.
It’s rigged against the honest man.
It’s vain to even have a plan.
The ones who hack are ones who win.
It’s venom for the self-esteem.
No point there is to work so hard.”
And thus, you play the victim card.
But then there is that question too:
So what if what you say is true?
Like everything, it’s just a game.
You like the rules? You play the game.
Don’t like the rules? Don’t play the game.
You want to win? You play the game.
Don’t want to play? Don’t watch the game.
Don’t watch the winners hack to win.
Don’t watch the losers hacked to win.
You watch, enjoy the bloody gore,
And then you want it bloody more
Without the blood upon your hands,
And so you hide behind your rants?
There’s things that only you can do.
So, might as well get to it, dude.
Minakhi Misra 