I found this scrawled at the back of my Elective English khata. I have no idea when I wrote it, or why. It really isn't a great poem, but I can still relate to it, and I compulsively love everything I create. So. Enter the torture chamber, at the both of our risks.
I know your imperfections, know them all
Like I know the faint smudges on my wall,
Traces of a hysterical reunion
With an old fountain pen.
I know them the way I know
The patch of peeling paint by the door
And the tile that's not quite level
With the rest of the floor.
The dent on my bed,
Where I rest my head,
The lamp that always tends to blow a fuse.
Once I entered a room
Where everything was of great use-
Nothing was ever misplaced,
Not a single item could be replaced
Or rearranged, for who
Dares Disturb the Balance of the Universe?
'Wow!' I thought at first,
And then I realised that I was feeling slightly sick.
I had a mad urge to throw a brick
At the cabinet full of porcelain
Or rumple up the cushions just a little bit
To make it look like people actually sit
On those perfect chairs.
On reaching home I ran into my room
And flopped upon the bed.
My head was snug in its little nook,
My eyes passed over each crooked cranny,
My mind was crammed with thoughts of your face
And everything fell into place.