My tasteless poetry

You and I, everything that we’ve expressed in the midst of misery, where beauty is just another dull word and happiness is a fancy fiasco playing over our ‘awe-inspiring’ heads, where the train is filled with flowers separated from its garden, and the permanent cloud of frost follows the sheets which had me delicately holding you—it’s just me talking to my poetry.

You’re a symbol of perfection, of everything that is miserable, downhearted, dejected, and depressed. There is a recital of you at the book shop, but there is no willingness from anyone to even listen. So you lie in despair, waiting for me to hold you yet again, and to your greatest delight, I’m always there for you.

And when I do get to write what you wanted me to, I somehow find myself condensed in the oblivion of my own anguish. The evergrowing prose of tragedy is what enlightens but what am I even voicing, if it's not my conviction leading me to it.

You and I, under the sea of endlessness, undeterred by the intolerable currents trailing around us, but sophisticatedly shielding us from any hope, robbed of the view of the tranquil and gorgeous sun strolling over us, all in pursuit of harmony that does not even exist, yet we lay in silence, talking about a new emotion to write today.

It's that daring instrument to life that makes us different. And it doesn't matter if people find you ‘tasteless’, or even the world conspires to hold me away from you. There is no averting the inevitable vows of freedom that we as a race find within you at the hour when one is emotionless or full of it.

You’re the only thing I can think of, and I don’t mind a bit if everyone around me finds it ‘tasteless’, when I try, just a little, to get a feel of how you breathe, how you lie next to someone and understand every piece of that person's mind, how you collude with the whole wide universe only to being a ray of hope for us.

My ‘tasteless’ poetry—pitied, sympathized, and shamed for everything that it never was.

But I long for you, more than ever, every single moment that I continue to breathe.

You and I, whose hearts are intertwined by a mortal dust of dependency, riding across the celestial, indeterministic, and luminous universe. The strings of our attachment—like the undying colors of Van Gogh on the walls of his museum, and the undecorated colors of a rainbow in the sky, are inseparable.

You held onto me when I was still a boy, and you’ve never left. Everyone does, but you did not.

Now as I lift my graceful and unblinking hands, and glance over the sheets which saw me leaning towards you just a while ago, I will say unto the world, and to everyone who ever believed in themselves—an irony it is, that we are unable to find a way out when everything around us is pointing towards it.

It’s you my ‘tasteless’ poetica—you’ve loved me like nobody ever did and I adore you, in a place where unrequited love outshines the land.

-Yogesh Chandra