The Poet’s pet Peeves #30dayblogwritingchallenge

Day 3 ,I propose

to proceed in poetry and prose

I do-

hate it when You

think I’m too caring or too detached or too

casual
Because frankly it’s true

as such

I’m
Thick skinned yet brittle to touch .
But the one who cares is the one

Whose hand you reach out to clutch,
When you’ve-

got no place to go-
You know.
So next time we meet ,

can we
Simply  be ?

Because frankly

my dear I know
I’m too much.

And I’m sure, so are you.

I do

hate it when You

read my texts and I

Keep waiting with no reply .
Because it’ll take five days, won’t it ? To simply make the effort to twiddle your thumbs –

oh I’m sorry to sound disrespectful here.
But sometimes, I wonder if you’ve heard the sound of your own silence.

I do hate it when I

judge you for being you
As though I have the licence to
Simply calculate your worth

on the basis of a minute or two
In which you could have been dealing with the apocalypse

and yet
I was busy being mad
At an unanswered text.

In Me :
I hate it when my head hurts because I can’t sleep because the voices in it are too loud. I hate it when I lose control . Inside my head and outside. And I watch the tears stream down my own eyes .

I hate it when you get mad at me
For a mistake I didn’t make
Or one I’m trying to avoid.
Can you not see how sorry I am?

If I wasn’t I wouldn’t need you to tell me to get lost- I’ve lived in exile anyway.

Back to you:

I hate it when you talk about unshaven legs on a girl- with doubt
Like it matters how plucked she is to see if she has brains or a heart or even a pretty face. I hate it when lies like that of the hairless angelic woman with smooth skin pervaded the world so deep that they think “they’re doing it for themself” and don’t mind waxing because it’s “worth the pain”.

I hate it when patriachy exists in forms we can’t even identify because it can blend so well.

Like the poet who leaves staccato gaps simply to appear contemporary and garner critical acclaim. Like the concealer I use to hide my dark circles when I stayed up crying over my foundation that cannot make me look more white. Like the shadow of doubt that makes me afraid to face the world without the flower tiara snapchat filter.

Like a blow so soft yet toxic that I can no longer hide it in poetry because there is no beauty in it anymore.

I hate it when you make promises to me that you knew you won’t keep¬† and make me raise my hopes just to see me weep.
I hate it when all that is left of the most feminist rant becomes this angst ridden confession of past betrayals. You think you know who they are about – But you have no idea how commonplace you are in this vastly treacherous universe.
30-day-blog-writing

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