My tasteless poetry-part 3

It’s utterly quiet outside—the evening is infused with the usual touch of one-sided love and the night sky is slowly slipping away from me like it was never a part of me in the first place. It feels so different, yet peculiarly familiar, the pale crescent moon shining like a silvery claw, waiting eagerly for me to fall like it always did.

And why is it that every time I breathe, I leave myself defenseless, in peril to the notion of nothingness that I’m slowly getting attracted to?

Why is it that I’m so quiet yet overflowing with a million thoughts every time I breathe?

Our hearts are bound by a thin coat of regret in everything that we should never have become, but imminently did. Is there even any ‘changing’ to it?

Maybe it’s the silence that flatters when everybody else so flourishingly forges their futile views about you. I’m lying here on the dusk of insignificance, but as I begin to ponder on the things that have shaped me all this while, I cannot help but think of all that could have transpired presently just through a little change to a single event in the past.

But as the stubborn yet gentle breeze changed its direction, I felt a heavy plug being switched on, almost like it was something inside of me. Then it was the usual stanza of emptiness followed by the naked compulsions of ending everything.

Yes, ending everything like nothing mattered in the first place. It’s a very strange place to be but what is ‘happiness’ when everything around us is constructed out of misery?

It's quiet outside, but the ‘insides’ have been screaming for so long that no one even keeps a count anymore. And you, my poetry, you express this so eloquently.

The black fog that floats inside one's head and the poetry of insignificance that propels it into chaos. If it's beauty that understands another beauty, then it’s also beauty that leads to the annihilation of the other.

But why is it that we continue to suffer when all we want is to breathe and know that we are breathing?

My tasteless poetry, it is only you and I, and nobody else on this journey. Please remember that always.

I have been thinking about the idea of insignificance and with it, you, my poetry, who makes me significant and splendidly insignificant at the same time.

The cloud of misery is an ever-existent verse in each piece but nobody seems to like it anymore.

Or is it just me, incapable of feeling anymore that I have befriended that tastelessness of life, of you, my poetry?

-Yogesh Chandra