Window

There is a window.

It spearates me from you:

Your labour from my rest

Your patience from my haste,

All the demeanours portrayed by you and I.

This window is of fabrication,

However, staining in ability.

All said and done in redundance,

This existent(?) window between you and I

Is what keeps me from looking into your eye.

Break, break the soul that belongs to thee,

Break break system and let me see.

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Fag.

-Aakriti Thatal Lighting Her first cigarette, Inhaling the smoke, the heat and the pang: She let her colours show And Her wings out. She shone. Brighter than the flame igniting her fag, did she shine. The flakes fluttering in the void, glowed'. Orange. Vibrant. She was Happy. The other smiled there, the passive smoker. Smiled. Smiling. Smile. Smile? The cigarette was Blithe. Life. She lived One. With cigarettes taking her breath little-by-little, did she live. She lived Once. Taking in the last puff, She smiled, hollow. Pain. End. Life. Once. One. Cigarettes. Her inhaler. Little did it take for the bright flakes fluttering, turn Gray. A very short while. Ash. They were Happy for a very short while.

Power

-AAKRITI THATAL. I look at myself, sometimes; Superficially. The skin- Dark. Gloomy. I go deeper. Not skin-deep. Deeper beneath. Choking, struggling to break free from A life that is only a Lie. A Lie- Cold and Intolerable. With cavernous darkness emanating From the grotto of 'the core'- The Heart. A Lie, I am unaware of. Crawling and flowing through every vein in my body; A piece of me, ephemeral. My eyes are dark and criminal. So many things seen but not shown. 'Views', unfathomable, Actions, unpleasant to the soul. These eyes have seen the others Shine and also cry; These eyes have lived long enough to 'just die'. Trepidant lips, trying to utter words to expedite emotions; Trying to jerk up a lip into a word. Struggling the best to make my feelings and thoughts more accentuated. These lips have a multitude of tales to tell. I WISH I HAD THE POWER. I WISH PEOPLE KNEW. I WISH

I used to draw flowers when strong desires in me sprang, To maneuver things to have my way. I coddled those desires in me for they were almost definite and such promise kept me impelled. They were scattered here, and blotched there, However, they were outward. Those evocative desires punctured every stub of confusion and left me aching for more display, more flowers. Those plump, pretty flowers would pucker publicly and throb with clear pulse, Almost loud, almost definite, almost tangible. The flowers withered. They wilted, uncared for. They wilted upon strenous trials of colouring them with self-indulgence, And not letting them breathe at their pace. / Today, a wall exists where used to be flowers; my hands no longer draw them. In trying to paint geometric, precise, absolute figures; the imperfect, raw, sincere flowers sagged. My hands are now entrapped, not engrossed. I view the outcome from this distance and refuse to appreciate the brick wall, but cannot appreciate the f

An Introspection

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Window

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Fag.

Power