Prena Poetry

there is dirty dishes in the sink
from breakfast i half ate
and stocked it in the refrigerator.
i feel sick to my stomach,
the medicine box on the cabinet
now feels like a friend
but now i am almost tired
of this nauseous nostalgia
circulating all the way to my gut.

there’s a fine red Buddhist Thangka
hung on my wall
and just at half a meter away
there’s pictures of Marilyn Monroe
and Bob Dayln and a painting of lucifer.
i think to myself, i am literally mosaic
of every culture, every music,
every people and every art i experience.
i have no depth, i know about so many things
yet i almost know nothing about being here.

my family was born rooted into the
southern manner of living.
i remember my father waking up on weekends
and playing the religious bhajan.
now somedays i wake up at 1pm,
listen to The Weeknd or Artic Monkeys
and then chant shiva mantra in the evening.
i grew up pressed inbetween multiple religions;
believing in buddha, brahma and
Tagera Ningwaphuma of kirat myths.
and also believing in nothing at the same time.

i also don’t remember asking God for anything
all these prayers and offerings
i never made them for myself.
i only thanked whatever the engery
that guided our mind to keep guiding us
atleast away from massacre of kind morality.

i don’t know where exactly i belong
there’s fragments of me in every place
but also there isn’t a seat saved for me.
i write about stores i live and see around,
somehow, i feel like a paradox alot of times.

this is a modern era
born out of those ancient wars
with civilizations dreaming up utopia.
and people like us,
who grew from playing mud
to digitalized warfare in smart phones.
we now neither belong to the past
nor to the future.