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.
Meenas Poems 