Autopsy Of Disordered Phrases
Autopsy Of Disordered Phrases
Sometimes red maple leaves are not enough to call it autumn.
Sometimes a man gets up and ties his shoelaces
the proper way.
Sometimes most of the things need not be mentioned,
in the lapse of two seconds,
But that is only because I am an introvert, isn't it?
And that potentially means I have changed, doesn't it?
Every morning the same mistakes in spellings are there.
How I spell 'Reality is skinning bones and collecting peace somewhere else.',
is way different from what they overestimate.
And I dare say, 'Maybe, there is a dragon down my spine
and maybe a prince
(who knows how to tie his shoelaces the proper way,
probably better than how I do my corsets)
would control it anyway',
But I hold a casket filled with daydreams too.
I am a woman,
and though not too loud, I speak too.
I am sorry that my lipstick is red
and the window seat is broken (for now).
'Shut up. Stop whoring around. You bring shame to your mailman's dog!'
You see, the skirts I wear are grey with patches of blue indigo.
There's a slit that knows its highs,
and the neckline is flowery,
but a little too deep for questioning eyes.
You see, there is a line crossed out in my autopsy reports,
a little too deep for questioning eyes.
Did I mention that I am a writer too,
that I jot things down onto morning breaths,
Oh, and not to mention that I also spell things differently?
But that you know already, don't you?
And also, that I invent future from clay and corpses.
Alas! my skirt is red now with blue indigo flowers,
that I painted myself from blue ink
(which got splashed on my fingernails).
Alright, that's a little exaggeration there,
the ink dried too soon for me to scribble,
the blue flowers were not there,
the skirt was not there,
I was possibly bare to the winds of September.
Or maybe not.
And I mean well.
Or maybe not.
Maybe it is just a sad day and you are quality prose in it,
or maybe it is just a bad poem that is exploited by my frustrations
occasionally.
Take it or lose it forever to mists and other precipitations.
Who am I in the end?
~ A so-and-so writer who spells things differently?
~ An average girl who does not like skirts at all?
~ A red-lipped woman without a microphone?
I could be a history of the universe in seventy minutes,
I could also be a sinking iceberg in that universe.
There is no end to this. Now visualise and repeat what I just said.
And this won't look different from home anymore.
'Shut up. Just quit it now. Your words are twisted.'
Alright.
I do not want to be that someone who says the right things
the wrong way.