Not Me, Not Me

A day of toil, both
physical and mental
put together
turns me mad,

I slam the door,
throw my reading 
materials, burn the 
milk, scorch the pan,

Behaving  rude, I scream 
at my  gardener Krishna,
the only one available
listens without a retort.

The ones who co exist 
look at me with an unease.
They include my family,
 my furniture, my  garden.
( they too  breathe life)

Never have they seen me 
take the role of a devil,
to them I am always an angel
gentle and soft.

A while after, I see my reflection
 in the mirror, eyes  welling 
nose twittering, face  red 
with rage,  “It is not me,
not me”, I whisper.