is this the eye [poem?]

dog died
father lied
you’ve been asked to walk alone

guruji
yellow home
charras in the window

forest trees
come with me
banyan draped so heavenly

scooter ride
want to die
went so fast around the curves

feet in window
butt on seat
fingers barely find the keys

breath

wonder when
I’ll find my feet
again

Many times I’ve sat to write. The journal is better these days —
pen flows without promise
of a reader
or two.

It’s amazing what it’s like to not want to be seen.

I remember what it was like ‘wanting’ to be seen. The loudest, the proudest, the best at this and that… It felt good to be seen.

And then, it did not feel good to be seen.

Right now, it does not feel good to be seen, perhaps because it feels people have expectations from me. To be wise. To be helpful. Or at least, to be cheerful.

I don’t want to be cheerful.

I want to paint smears of ochre yellow, purple, black, white across large canvasses. I want to paint foreheads, and cheeks, and chins. I want to paint people not smiling.

I want to paint the people, not smiling.

I am not smiling. If I am, I am likely not sober. It’s shitty. But it’s true, these days.

I’m often not smiling.

I am crying.

I am painting reflections on canvas.

They are often missing eyes, and nearly always missing
the likeness.

I am nearly always missing
the likeness
of what was
when I used to be what was it that I used to be?

Nevermind because right now, I don’t want to smile
because that would not be fair. There are so many people
not smiling.

I am one of them now.

And now, I have no words to offer you.

But I can paint you some ochre lips.

Would you like that?
I would
like that.