POETRY

I do not feel poetic.

I cannot find words to tie from end to end, to produce a meaningful sentence.

Writer's block?

May be.

But I cannot find anything to write about.

Nothing inspiring enough, nothing depressing enough.

We are all just hanging by fragile threads, waiting to fall off and some, hoping for a miracle to save them.

However, the funny part is that we don't even know what our misery is.

Or what misery is.

We react violently when someone does not reply to our message. We react violently if someone dates our crush.

We react violently when someone uploads a bad-hair-day photograph of ours on a social networking site or when our best friend does not 'like' our profile picture thinking that the friendship is over.

We react violently when someone spills a bit of coke on our favourite dress or when 'my favourite actor' fails to get an oscar and also when that actor dates the actress 'I' hate with all my life.

We react violently when we get caught in traffic, cursing first, the other cars and then the whole solar system.

We react violently when during that traffic jam or otherwise, Hijras knock on the clear glasses of our BMWs, shoo them away and check if the glass has scratches on it.

If yes we put on a disgusted face and say how afraid we are of them.

If no we put on a disgusted face and say how afraid, we are of them.

We react in the same violent way when a little kid in dirty, tattered clothes, pulls at our clean sari begging for some food or money.

We react in the same violent way when mum asks us to skip a party to accompany her to a relatives place or when dad asks us to cut down on the number of cigarettes because he is really, extremely worried about our burning lungs.

We react in the same violent way when a fly enters the classroom.

The same violent way when someone says, "You are too fat for this dress, wear the other one."

The same violent way when our ill grandma repeats something over and over again because, after that mild cerebral attack, she's almost time warped in her brain and she just cannot come out of the past.

I've seen our same violent ways so many times around me that it makes me that it makes me wonder how all of it disappears into thin air when,

"My neighbour's daughter was being eve teased last evening..."

(I did not want trouble so I hid myself and ran out of that area.)

"...she needs to drape her veil properly else people are bound to stare."

"A guy committed suicide in front of me at a metro station today..."

(I did not want trouble so I ran out of the area.)

"...it's his life after all. He would know best what to do with it. I would not have been of any help.

Also, I hate people with suicidal tendencies. They are so weak."

"I had partied all night and I was driving back home with my friends. The car hit a beggar on the pavement by mistake..."

(I did not want trouble so I ran out of the area.)

"...I was tired and it was getting late. Anyway, it's the beggar’s fault, why does he live on the streets!"

"I am friends with the cool seniors of my college. They were ragging someone the other day. I went to see and found out it was my best friend from school..."

"...I joined them, watched it happen. My seniors would oust me from their group if I had raised a voice. I did not want trouble.

But I saw my friend see me with teary and hopeful eyes. I turned my face away and broke into an evil laugh I had picked up from them."

Life is good. Is it not?

We are all in our little bubbles, cozy and warm.

Where is the need for poetry?

A few words would not heal us anyway.