Dear Cassandra,
Enough of the drama.
You’ll soon be a baby’s mama.
Try to understand the nuances of the life
A reason of being; the daily hustle to provide.
Like, those movie stars that are dancing in bars are fiction;
Imperfect lives in between cuts and with cuts of addiction.
Friction. Between illusion and reality
Delusion: at the brink of getting clarity
Open your eyes. Try to survive.
That noose is not the answer.
Contemplate and meditate.
You are approaching your disaster.
Faster, read the fucking signs:
That tattoo of ; on your wrist will not get you far tonight.
The trials and tribulations of a community collapsing on itself
It is a test. It is a maze. It is a lie.
It is an absurd experiment of failed tries
Of texts that never reach you.
Of those old feelings you are aggrieved of.
A cocktail of molotov;
A casket of broken hearts;
A desperate attempt to talk;
An heart ache that never stops;
A convict that only knows how to hop;
A thought that needs to be dropped.
Shot. Like the truth in streets.
Cassandra, just go to sleep.
Himanshu Chakravarty Sharma / मंच 