11 O’ CLOCK, MONDAY MORNING

You defer that next meeting

at the doctor’s,

knowing that to talk to oneself,

for far too long

makes poor verbiage of one’s days;

and worse for wear is your mind.

naturally then you look at yourself

a certain way

and then to see round eyes of others’

pronounced judgements

is a slow death.

***

It minces your thoughts,

word by word,

little by little.

You see yourself as a jester and a fool,

testing out your own expressions

before the mirror

and then imagining the doctors’

reactions too.

They swim like floating weeds,

coming up to the surface without

clarity amongst dirty pools

and you somewhere are sure that

the three letter word is on your mind.

MAD.

*

That’s why you seek your shadows

in convenient silences,

stretched out throughout the

longevity of teenage

and young adulthood.

***

But now you are about to touch

your thirties

and shame is what you need to barter

with the devil on your shoulder.

For years,

he bespoke your innocence

and ignorance,

disguising them as parameters of bliss

So enough with him.

You have marked the meeting,

spending Sunday ticking by,

like an implosive time-bomb of sorts.

And then,

you gather your twitching thoughts

together.

Palpitating about how the perpetual

traffic in motion

means that nobody really stops,

to work or feel or see.

Certainly not to see you like this.

They just move

They just move

Or spin in the same static time zones.

Your brow receives a light downpour

then

and your body gets cold,

from counting the number of closed

switches in the rooms

and checking the stove in the kitchen,

for the twentieth time within a

minute.

***

11 O’ Clock,

Monday morning.

marked for a show of reality.

And when the doctor does raise his

brows

and makes you more nervous by the

earnestness of the session,

being as he is human,

or just acting professional,

you doubt if coming here was worth it

And your mind keeps moving

and moving,

in a static frame,

of what it means to go there

in the first place.

****

2 thoughts on “11 O’ CLOCK, MONDAY MORNING

  1. Palpitating about how the perpetual

    traffic in motion

    means that nobody really stops,

    to work or feel or see.

    Certainly not to see you like this.

    I LOVE the above lines. The entire poem has this “motion” throughout. It “palpitates.” It “beats.” It “pulses.” Ironic that you call this poem “11 O’CLOCK, MONDAY MORNING,” since the poem is NOT static at all, and yet maybe that’s the point?

    But now you are about to touch

    your thirties

    and shame is what you need to barter

    with the devil on your shoulder.

    I also LOVE these above lines. “Shame” is a topic I write about A WHOLE LOT! It has followed me many of my days, from infancy (I think, anyway) to twenties and thirties and forties and so on. Now that I am in my fifties, has shame stopped for me? It still hangs around and creeps up, a doctor of sorts yet NOT human and NOT a professional. Just an annoyance and a deep lie. There is nothing I have to be ashamed about anything! I’m FREE now and will always be so. As a massive feeler, I’ve learned to accept ALL my feelings, ask each feeling that shows up to pull up a chair, and “let’s talk.” I welcome the feeling and ask it to tell me what it needs to say….or feel. When all seems finished with the intensity of that feeling, I thank it for visiting me and excuse myself but tell the feeling I’m always eager and willing to have the feeling come back again so we can “let’s talk.”

    Once again, I LOVE the way you write, Prithvijeet!

    Blessings,
    Timothy

    Like

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