"to all the people like me"

I see you
walking away from
pain all day
only to return to it's lap
as dawn transcends into dusk.

I see you
finding comfort in darkness
the same kind you found in
Dad's arms once,
while the entire world
scorns
at your eccentricity.

I see you
direly trying to hide
your poems from Ma
in the fear of seeing her
crash to the ground
with dilemma ridden eyes
seeing her burn those sheets
like it was your pyre

I see you
endlessly lying about
why you write
confusing passion with ache
when it is the only thing
keeping you alive.

I see you
I see your heart break
into two
as you soak words
with blood
and sponge the yellow walls
of your room
you don't  know
when you fell in love
with spilling blood
instead of it flowing through your veins.

I see you
every night
as you pick up the quill
and wonder
why do you relate to Plath more
when Wordsworth
was the one
who wrote happier poems.
You eat black for breakfast
and Bukowski's melancholy for lunch
while emptiness fills your stomach
before you sleep.

I see you
not sleep
but write that
emptiness away
so that you wake up
looking full the next day
so that the world
doesn't question
the void in your eyes
and that lack of light.

I see you
and I know
you see me
so can we just spend
one evening
aching together
not smiling or laughing.
One evening where
we are not faced with the
brunt of explaining
this overwhelming numbness.
One evening where we
analyze why our poems don't rhyme anymore
as darkness lulls us to sleep.
Till that one evening,
I will continue seeing you
from the corner
quietly.

               -S.Dhar