My poem is lactose-intolerant.
It’s a baker allergic to flour,
A depressed comedian,
A theatre kid with social anxiety,
Who works in customer service.
My poem is un undefeated irony.
And what if over the years,
It has fallen slightly in love with pain
— 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘭 𝘪𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘩𝘶𝘳𝘵 𝘢 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦, 𝘪𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘮 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭.
My poem smells of Bhopal’s methyl isocyanate.
It stands beside Marsha P. Johnson
And does a drag-dance
In the Stonewall Riots.
It’s a young Palestinian boy
Wearing his dead father’s shirt,
Fixing a tattered teddy bear,
With cotton leaking out, like blood.
Being political was never a choice,
Because my poem has seen children
Playing with bricks, bones, guns
And has grown out of red aluminous soil
— 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘱𝘰𝘱𝘱𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘴 𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘸, 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘴.
My poem doesn’t look pretty,
With incurable sores of dictatorship
On its innocent tongue.
It cannot romanticize Van Gogh’s paintings
Plagued by psychiatric illness,
But peels oranges and tears leftover bread,
— 𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘪𝘨𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘱𝘪𝘦𝘤𝘦.
My poem is overweight,
Trying hard to fit within the 2200 characters,
As God and Adam try to hold hands
In the Sistine Chapel;
𝘢𝘭𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘵𝘦.
It lives in the next Auschwitz,
And creates art on algorithm-based feeds
That feed on simultaneous sponsored ads for
— “𝘴𝘦𝘹𝘺 𝘟𝘚 𝘴𝘪𝘻𝘦𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘵𝘴” 𝘢𝘯𝘥 “𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯 𝘪𝘯 3 𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘬𝘴”.
On days my ideas fade out like a lightroom’s vintage film,
On days my words don’t fit after the prolonged maternity leave,
On days my metaphors are not a trending hashtag, but a mere cliché,
I close my diary and wonder,
— 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘮𝘺 𝘱𝘰𝘦𝘮 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘱𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘲𝘶𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦?