The Mind House I am the agent of my own, busy, cluttered house of my mind, situated on the cockpit of self. I am trying to rent out space for prospective ideas to move in. It’s a semi furnished place, not much refurbishment in pace.
If a viewing is arranged, you may find an oven full of half-baked experiences; Inner wiring of perception repaired every other day. Curtains of stereotype removed from the window of eyes. Slammed doors of opportunity and cracked wall of old beliefs. Bed of faith, bedded by my shadow. The sink of perpetual expectations, running and flowing into pipe of nothingness. Three legged chairs of confidence, giving rest to a tired body, and hands placed on the table full of everyday blessings. The washroom is meditative, looking into a misty mirror of memories.
Apart from these, there are miscellaneous objects all around, But am sure, still, there is plenty of space to be found.
Poet’s Note – The poem is a surrealist attempt to juxtapose insides of a mind to a house full of wear and tear, ready to offer space for rent, so that new ideas can always move in.
Time passes by The birds flew high Grass is never greener on the other side They lied They lied Controlling your mind You’re being watched And they’re inside Your split mind Comedy and tragedy What is this horrid travesty The
Thanksgiving never will I forget Hopping in the car for a very long ride to grandma’s house With heavy frost on the grass, glistening in the sun Singing songs and counting grain bins to pass the time Now the frost