Harsh -- Hûrsh; [noun]

I am struggling.

To find room for a toe,
a finger-grip from which to hang on
away from certain death.

To walk my natural pace
without a collision per second.
To save my latest shoes
from ruin
by leaping across human waste.

To inhale more
than unburnt fuel
and fetid burps from
the rotting guts of this bee-hive.

To feel more
than just arms and legs
and a cocktail of sweat.
And uneven bumps
and stings of poison in my eyes.
Hear lesser
than shrieks and grinds and yells.

To spend lesser
on wasteful accumulations
of a life
that does not use them.
To save more time
for a life
that's one breath away from suffocation.

Too many lungs,
shrinking hours.
Too much of everything
Except peace.

I don't want to struggle.

A tune of my dreams
is waiting
in the sinews of a violin
waiting
in display in Colaba.

Books
are waiting
in dust and moisture.
A study of life
Past and present.

I don't want to wait.

Why
and where
did I lose myself
so completely
that I needed someone else to
jolt me into remembering?

What
is so pleasing
in declaration of employment
with "a name to reckon with"
When life's a switch between
Spending tense nights and days for
Money that doesn't show
but stuffs coffers around the world;
And
the struggle to salvage three hours
to remind myself:
I am me.

I have to burn this to the ground
Again.

"Escapist."
"Rebel."
"Wanderer."
"Unstable."
"Impractical."

I think my life needs space
Again.

The lost must be found
re-emphasize its value
by virtue of being
all
or none of the above.

So be it.

I...
Harsh.
Yes.