Misguided Disguise

I hold on to her tight whenever possible For she holds the only remnants of my youth

I saw a cat lying on the street her hindlegs crushed to a pulp already given up on any hope to live Road accident had met her aiming for a roadkill soon after I tried to make sense of the mess Took her upon my arms Not much resistance, not much life Rushed off to rescue her, and I did, somehow, with a help of an expert vet She is back now, sans the mangled legs I then took her home and gave it Took care Gave love, then some more and saved her My epitaph shall read: "Or did I?"

பாதுகாப்பான ஒரு போர்வை அதன் உள்ளே ஒழுகி ஊத்தும் வியர்வை வெளியே குளிர் வாட்டுமாம், அங்குள்ள எல்லாமே தீட்டாம் இருக்கட்டும் பரவாயில்லை ஆசைப்பட்டு உள்ளேயே வெந்து நொந்து வாழும் ஒரு வாழ்க்கை அது புரிகிறது ஆனால், வெளியே போகும் ஒரு வழிப்போக்கனை க்  கண்டாலும் கொதிக்கும் எண்ணெ ய் யில் பொ ரி க்கப்போட்ட கோழியாய் கொப்பளிக்க வேண்டிய அந்தத் தேவை அது புரிபடவில்லை

Something clicks inside the machinery and it starts at once It coughs and splutters and whirs and moans beating against itself But seems to go on Am I to figure out what ticked it off, and then why that’s a tick off Or Grease and pray to smoothen the run?

It was ungodly early in the morning I was laying like a starfish on my bed With the depth of sleep I was in, I might very well be taken for dead It felt like a warm wonder paradise the sinking sucking cushy bed the much needed weight of the thick blanket and the cat, the fuzzy little menace, deciding to purr and be my lazy accomplice It was the perfect retreat Then the alarm clock took off to blare and the walls of the room started to close in This is it I beg only for a few more minutes for I don’t care much for life hereafter

Sleepy when everyone’s running their race No more room no more space to even save face Sleepy in the day sleepy in the night Can’t fight Can’t write I’m beat Just want to coil around like a snake and left alone to sleep Until the boots of adversity can stomp me back to a life

Feeding off of my addictions Is it still symbiotic if they are scavenging off of me?

Turning and tossing and tumbling in my bed It’s well past 2 and I’ve lost track of how many hours I’ve been whacking my head It’s starting to crack at the seams and should soon explode He’s zooming through the room Barraging through my stuff with a thorough intent to destroy it all overnight Raising exactly the kind of hell a jittery cat in a clumsy apartment should sound like I wish he’d stop Not that it’d make any difference, but still He does this When he hasn’t done anything worthwhile during the day missed his chance to tear off some songbird into pieces, maybe or just didn’t get any lay I assume We are not all that different My midnight agitations are confined to the boundaries of my bed, his is not

I'm never good at articulating my thoughts, much less putting it out on a paper Guess I can never be a writer But I can go and write and try and be a poet Who's going to tell the difference?