Outside My Window

Outside my window I see the absence of activity
I see a wall that I built to become poetic – to call it dilapidated.
I hear the water droplets gravitating to the ground:
gradual, meditative, the cautionary observers of time.
My hands reach out for the feather resting on the window sill;
what could it mean but shedding of an aerial being?
The ground still emits the remaining smell of petrichor
like the weight of memories, you try getting rid of, but in vain.
I look outside my window hoping to get a taste of autonomy,
I think now I have a stomach full of confinement.


Did this city need an emergency to breathe freely and thrive?
Outside my building, I see trees moving, more carefree than ever.
I observe clear skies from my balcony recalling distant dreams.
I feel sun rays piercing my skin with the fervor of a lover’s touch.
Hadn’t we all forgotten that even breathing is such a luxury?

Did this city need an emergency to come to terms with reality?
How much of what we own matters in this period of ordeal?
How many of those we know have extended their hands to us?
Do we know what is keeping us alive in this prolonged calamity?
Hadn’t we all been taking the availability of life for granted?

Did this city need an emergency to learn interdependence?
We were all so carefree in how we impacted other lives.
We thought when it comes to others, ‘it doesn’t matter.’
Now, we know we all draw from the same repository of life.
Haven’t we only been thinking about ourselves, our needs?

This city is now throbbing even under the looming danger.
This city is now recovering from its mystifying insanity.
This city is now spacing itself from the unwanted chaos.
The city is now painting itself in hues, colors, and shades.
This city is now alive—it is breathing in the fullness of time.


We’re the men, the women, the children, the old.
We’re the constructors, the destructors, the shapers.
We’re the thinkers, the talkers, the listeners, the doers.
We’re the readers, the writers, the teachers, the learners.
We’re the compassionate, the indifferent, the weird kind.
We’re striving, falling, and we’re getting back up.
We’re winning, losing, and we’re giving up.
We’re this, we’re that, and we’re the in-between’s.
We’re the givers, the takers, the keepers, the savers.
We’re beings—we continue to ‘be’ more of who we are.
We’re here, we’re now, and then suddenly, we aren’t.
We’re the embodiment of many beliefs and feelings.
We’re all carrying our dreams carefully in our palms.
We’re seeking to reach where we’re destined.
We’re living each day in the want of that one thing.
Or, maybe we’re trying to figure out why we’re here.
We’re the meaning seekers of our kind and accord.
We’re all so different yet fundamentally the same.

What Even?

In the ambitious hopes of tomorrow,
we lose what little nice, today can be.
In the anticipation of what still isn’t,
we ruin what is there in our hands.
In the pride we haven’t earned yet,
we mostly let go of what matters.
In proving ourselves as ‘somebody’,
we often forget who we really are.
In the gripping fear of the final call,
we die small little deaths every day.