The nameless, faceless poem I’d dreamed of.


Man with a funny accent says,
“One of you will be dead-
shot in the head,
before the  day is spent,”
and then invites himself to dinner.

We get ready,
paying attention to the trinkets,
but keeping a tighter hold on the money.
The crumpled hundreds and tens greet me-
as I open the bag of savings-
I’d had since I was a little kid.
I’d spent a lot of it-
but lately I felt the pinch…
Preferring, now, to borrow from the parents,
and merely looking at these bills in its pristine form.

My mother joins me
and smiles.
You could call it a moment.

Over plates of rice
and plates of naan
and buttery side dishes-
the dinner conversation grows,
man with the funny accent included.
It tastes like five hundred bucks.

Outside, a chocolate store
comes into view.
I am still laughing and keeping pace
with The Man With The Funny Accent.
For if he does control my fate
I want to control him.
So why does he suddenly disappear?


I felt a bit of my soul recede,
as I looked around,
trying to spot the Man.
Trying to ignore the pangs
of emptiness that suddenly seemed to surround
Like a dust covered ring.

My thoughts shifted to Saturn,
as I giggled and giggled,
I cracked myself up
Till tears leaked down my cheeks
and the wounds though unseen
did bleed.

Where was he?
I needed his words
that felt like the warm hugs
I’d never got.

I felt a chill
as I looked ahead
and all I saw
was the candy shop.
The colourful chocolate bars rippled in the sun,
Dairy Milk next to Mars,
Lindt next to Hershey bars.
My serotonin levels rose,
as a gunshot tore through the wind-
and emerged from the core of my skull-
putting an end to my last thought.

NOTE: I had this dream a year back… which involved a weird man and my own death near a chocolate shop. When I woke up, the dream was still in my head (and I could remember every detail of it)… mainly because I’d died in my own dream.  Something I’d thought was impossible. I googled it and according to several sites, such dreams indicate an “emotional transformation”.

Either way, what I’d really wanted to do that day was write down my dream, and as I began to write it down, it seemed to flow better when I wrote it in verse form (I guess that was probably because we were studying S.T. Coleridge’s Kubla Khan, at that time).

I found the notebook in which I’d written it down today. I hadn’t finished writing the entire poem that day (what I’d written that day was the whole of I), but I could still remember the rest of the dream sequence (probably coz I’d told almost everyone I knew about the dream)… making me want to finish the poem and post it here (which I finally did).

"Look at me, I'm the tragic heroine."

I’ll watch you wallow in the misery,
cut yourself so consciously,
I don’t want to.
But you make me.
Oh, you make me.
Your wounds are so subtly seen,
I can see how you willingly bleed
but your tragedy
is not what you think it is.
You revel in you,
and make me revel in you,
Should I watch you
falling into the darkness?
Should it move me?
Does it move you?
I’d rather watch a different movie,
no thank you.
If love had a handbook,
you’d buy it.
If tragedy had a best friend,
you’d be it.
You’re falling,
You’re aware of it.
You like it.

POSTED here but I thought it belongs here as well.