This is not a joke.
I looked in the mirror and saw a face.
It was nothing scary.
Not at all like those horror films.
But it was indeed a face.
It wasn’t creepy.
It wasn’t the face of a stranger.
But it was indeed someone I used to know.
I might even call him familiar.
The beard has grown, the hair unkempt.
But the feature were just the same as I remembered.
I don’t know.
It wasn’t a pleasure seeing him again.
On the contrary I never quite liked him.
But c’est la vie!
Ghosts from the past aren’t adorable.
I swear, I looked in the mirror and saw a face.
Static in my ears.
Static on the line.
Static from the earpiece after my lines.
Static lays the call,
Static is my life.
Static is what has become the epitome of lies.
Static in her words,
Static on my mind.
Static can’t replace her “love you too” in my life.
Twas nothing to the common eye,
The stairwell was what was seen.
But see what perspective shades
And everything changes what it has been.
It was the downward spiral of a common man.
The path to success to other.
To one it meant nothing
And to the other, it compared to nothing.
But it was all it was for most, id est,
Ye seeks what ye want and that is all that matters.
Peering into the soul,
My friend, a story once he told.
Of how he loved to blot the page
And make his own Rorschach test.
Similarly, I have this tiny habit
To read people and their habits.
Just to make my soul and brain age,
I do this every day without fail.
To be in love with melancholy,
Reading the ends first in a story.
To adore the lovely petrichor,
To sit and hear the sounds of shore.
Habits unknown. Personalized.
Secretive and yet explored.
To the world, they seem odd.
Lutalica (noun): The Part of Your Identity that Does Not Fit Into Categories.
P.s. Check out John’s YouTube channel, The Dictionary Of Obscure Sorrows, right here. He makes amazing words like the one this poem is all about, Lutalica.
The quiet and gentle breeze.
Was quietly and hastily working in the kitchen.
Who did everything mischieveiously.
Was impatiently humming around her.
In a haste she was.
Continiously working without pause.
In a rush, she asked him to give her the salt.
“Could you give me that?”
With a twinkle in his eye
And a plan so naughty on his mind,
He leaned in and kissed her cheek.
Confused and angered,
Her tone in a cold-stoned demeanor.
She asked, “Why did you do that?”
And he in a voice meek,
And a devilish grin from cheek to cheek;
Replied, “You asked for that.“
P.s. Happy birthday to both of my parents.
Driving in the morning bright,
Whizzing past the street lights;
I hummed to myself as I stopped at the traffic lights.
It was then that I saw her.
Something was strange about her.
And the peculiar manner she stared at me.
They held my gaze like magnets,
Breaking my confidence to fragments.
Uneasy and nervous they made me feel.
They held some strange power,
As if she held a wicked desire.
She is innocent but not her eyes.
But little did I knew,
I made her uncomfortable too.
As I too was staring back at her!
Opia (noun): The Ambiguous Intensity Of Eye Contact.
Special thanks to John once again for letting me weave a poem around his words! Check out his YouTube channel, The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows.
A cup of joe in the right,
A blank sheet in the left.
With my spectacles at the tip of my nose,
I set to work once again.
I sat and sketched the street below,
In the tranquil peace of my window.
And that was when I saw the kid
Who reminded me of someone known.
My sibling goes below the street,
I mumbled keeping down the sheet.
I smiled at the way he walked about,
Those tiny feet scuffling around.
Memories came flooding to my mind,
How he used to run as I ran behind.
How he grew up and so did I.
And how this kid is so alike!
The tiny kid with curly hair.
Who tripped so much here and there!
But then my joy came crumbling down,
As he hit his head on the chair.
As when the mother came to his rescue,
I saw that the kid is not my brother I knew.
But in fact, he was just the face…
And had a different life. A different fate.
And then it dawned on me.
He had a different history than we.
And so did the mother caressing her son.
And so did every person on the Earth!
It’s not just me who is unique,
Every person has their story!
P.s. Check out John Koenig’s outstanding YouTube channel, The Dictionary Of Obscure Sorrows, right now. He coins these amazing words, just like he coined Sonder, and he permitted me to take his words out. 🙂 Thank you John! I know the poetry is not good at all. I will get better at it.
When dusk and dawn embrace,
Staring Sun and Moon in face.
That’s when you and I escape.
Escalating our escapades.