I feel I’m not one of those people
for whom monetary terms define the values,
who always succeed in saving their crowns of intelligence,
and prove their worth, importance and significance.
I wish I was brilliant like them,
so when they would pronounce the word ‘brilliant’,
I would say there’s a word with whom I can connect,
and then they would come up with synonymous words
to impress me and win my approval,
Having been short of a herculean vocabulary,
I would be rigid and reject all those words,
they would get amazingly impressed,
considering me someone of a very high intellect,
while my insecurities would plant a kiss on my cheeks
I would neither feel happy nor gloomy,
but still I would find some ache in my heart.
When they would ask the reason of my face-lift,
I would try to divert their attention from my half-hid scars
and they would bring many psychological theories to light,
which they would find buzzing on the social-media,
I would laugh and try to sleep.
While sleeping, a wave of thoughts would engulf me:
I’m nothing but a brat of a certain kind–
the one who doesn’t flaunt the money-bump,
the one who replaces the monetary terms with values
when they try to lure her through their illumination,
and the one whose conservatism knows no boundaries.
My thoughts would turn to a semi-philosophical path:
Though my hormic tendencies slay the mnemic ones,
but still I remain an orthodox,
and this traditional temperament of mine,
when reflected through my poems,
I’m being called a ‘colloquial poet.’
I would wake up and forget the struggle of night,
while performing all the folkways,
but then a gush of thoughts would pinch me back to the past
and I would move towards them:
They think it is my way to defame their values
or reduce their significance,
but this is my way to record my protest
against what I’ve to go through due to the juxtaposition
of both money and values.
plates break, eggs crack: life suffices.