Sunday

on this sunday interlude
i try coming back to poetry
force back my way into it rather.
pour my recent restlessness on paper.
- not to mention the sophistication
i have bought myself into,
and the bounded rationality -
and watch it shape itself
into something that seems exquisite.
i am at a barber while trying to verse
and i am clueless. classically.
as my beard goes, so does my poem.
i have a smart, smart phone.
and lots of friends on the other side of it
trying to fill in for the gaps in the aforementioned rationality.
but what about my poetry?

she was the world

the world was feeling tired that day.
so she got into a car.
and starting riding. to just try and move forward.
wherever that might be.
along with everyone else.
without talking to anyone.
she imagined it to be a fancy mountain.
beautiful and serene.
that would bring her fresh air and warm thoughts.
some friends perhaps. permanent enough.
other than those riding the traffic with her.
in cars close by. just a couple of yards away.
riding to a similar place.
she kept nudging. end of story.