Picasso's Cubes or The Flux

I wake up in the words I wield,

In the sentences I write,

Halfway up—and down halfway.

I see through thoughts

That are not mine.

They are from my predecessors.

When I look in the mirror,

It says:

[ERROR: TRUE SELF NOT FOUND]

So I smile and pretend

To not be affected by the mockery

Of my existence.

Time stutters—

And my brother butters

Some toast in the kitchen.

He pays for my needs.

And I eat and sleep and write,

And the toast he roasts

Never burns my throat.

Somewhere, the God 

Is either laughing or distracted

Or maybe thinking about his feet.

In between,

Aspider loots His kingdom

And prays for forgiveness.

I wish I were God—

I'd be fair.

Oftentimes, I'd find

My dream dress lying

Across my bathroom tile. 

Istep over it, and

Later I realise 

I have made a mistake.

But I do not apologize.

People ask, "You are a writer.

You must be reading a lot!

Tell us, what is the purpose of life?"

I say unto them,

"To ask what the question means."

They nod in awe.

They think it’s wisdom. 

Isay it’s not.

It’s just manipulation

With a little bit of charm.

I once fell in love

With a girl

Who didn’t believe in doors

But in Picasso's cubes.

She walked between walls

And lived in tubes.

Once I asked, "Fly with me!"

She said,

"Boundaries are the only real thing."

She was right.

She disappeared after a while.

And never met. 

I stayed behind,

Arguing with the doorknob:

"Tubes are stretchable.

And sometimes boundaries too."

The moon doesn't care about me.

And I do not care about the moon either.

We both are utterly selfish.

We reflect each other.

We break each other.

I write poems that are absurd.

But it's real—the pain is real—

The meaninglessness is real—

As real as the breaking of a glass

If it falls on a floor.

As real as the cracks of this earth,

As if desiccated from a century.

As real as my desire

Of having her in my arms.

As real as the sequence

Of my unfulfilled desires. 

One day, I will say it all again—

Quite clear and precise—

The day our hearts will be pure,

And our minds simple.