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‘Deranged diagram of domestic violence’ and other poems 

By: Sanchari Dasgupta

Deranged diagram of domestic violence

Body pains and disagreements,
shattered glass, pieces lying on the floor,
you listen to rock songs
and sleep on the bed while I,
lie on the sofa curled up in a ball
wishing that I lay on the glass instead.
Something to numb the stab in my chest,
something stronger, to feel a heightened pain.
Layered over the battle scars of everyday life,
a child in concussions, helpless
with no idea of the world ahead, how it is,
for nothing makes sense when you are happy
and how I have surpassed that time.
With every delusion in decisions,
one step at a time, it feels disoriented
to have fallen deep into the depth of
broken glasses and broken bones,
broken tears and broken friends.
And what is left of this blemished façade,
of a smile and a quick courtesy,
is the building block of existence itself; blood.
I know not what people say about lovers,
to hold something so dear, but so dreadful,
so fragile yet so dangerous, but someday,
the last piece of Jenga will break the tower,
the shattered glass will wound his feet,
and I will listen to rock songs on the bed,
and I will not clean up the mess he made.



Treading slowly towards the beginning of life,
in this dreary dark world meted out of power,
in this frightful world of forlorn Pinocchio,
people who are carved out of stone and bricks,
I wonder what it looked like, this world
before human apocalypses tied their strings.
Each shadow holding a knife of terror,
grass is black on every side.
The rainbow colours tainted with despondence,
Everyman is everyone, Everyman is fighting.
And the songs we sing are not poems anymore,
there are no books to read,
only arms to hold and people to kill.
Who can look beyond this war zone?
Treading slowly towards the beginning of life,
inching closer to supposed perfection.
There is no looking back when you hold a gun.
Are meadows real? Am I dreaming?
A man towering over men
got nothing to fight for, no one to die for,
broken gas cylinders lying like dirt on the street.
A lingering gaze from men above,
eyes holding poker emotions, stoic and greasy.
Won’t I get the sweet taste of heaven?
Is heaven the beginning of life?
Cannot dream without fear in my head,
Laughter as a luxurious expression,
cannot afford to laugh, or cry.
One can tread slowly towards the beginning,
only when their heart stops beating.

Sanchari Dasgupta


  1. Excellent, and depicts the truth,the real happenings . Well versed and put together to understand.

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