Show me one who is not in a state of transition,
Yet, this manic chase of perfection,
It crawls, eating away the space for self exploration,
This hard race is counter to the phase,
And though we are so connected,
Breathlessness called anxiety,
We aren’t able to save,
All we do is give each other space,
Are we ready to tiptoe or scrub quirks away?
Our shades of expansive embrace,
Self and us together,
Either bored of squeaky clean white,
Or busted, my blackness,
Trying not to listen to fright,
Still instinct or sub mission,
Still playing it safe,
Frame perfection or chase great?
Here comes the dread,
To stick out?
Seek a canvas to showcase those- Anamolical mysteries,
Rest this dimming, where genius sits,
Let the sparks and butterflies sketch themselves on your expression,
Let the eyes find rainbows filling the night skies,
Someone we both know etched his anomaly
It was out of ordinary,
Soaking wet then sunny rays,
Perfection or genuinity?
I have a magnum eraser,
As we speak, I am blurring the lines…
– Rupika Moitra
Poet of Flutter and Glide