the diagnosis is in,
it was death by routine.
the diagnosis is in,
it was death by routine.
reach
hold
drop
spill.
try
harder
and harder
until
you
notice
your patterns
of irregularities
repeat.
chup chaap bhaithe raho kehte ho,
wahaan likha hai khade hona haraam hai.
kyun mila te ho paani mein zeher
aur pesh karte ho ke jaam hai?
kyun banke qatil-e-ishq, kehte ho
mebhoob ki bahoon mein araam hai?
kyun manate ho azaadi ka aaj jasn,
jab asliat mein aaj tanhaai ki shaam hai?
kyun rastoon pe todh ke patthar, phir kehte ho
yeh zakhm meri nakaami ka anjaam hai?
kyun mujhe chodte nahin, zaalim,
teri duniya mein mera kya kaam hai?
and i fear that this moment
too quickly withers and dies.
and i wonder if you see in mine
what i see in your eyes.
while you do mean what you say,
what you say doesn’t mean anything.
i, too, saw dreams.
but then i did,
and my doing did more than my dreams ever did.
i wrote you a series of letters
that i never sent to you.
i recently burned them
and it felt good.
well, i rolled ‘em into joints
and smoked them.
which is probably why
it felt so good.
i drive fairly safe,
though i still constantly fear
that my brakes will fail
old lady insists
for me to remain seated
my stop passes by
whatever you want
to call that spade
is irrelevant.
you are still
digging your grave
with it.