Five Poems | Aswin Melepatt

Get Lost Mike via Pexels

Artsy Truck

You’d never know when you’re going to get hit by the artsy truck.⁣

I just got back from the gym.
Slightly exhausted.⁣
I could feel the pulse ringing through my veins⁣,
as I stood there waiting for the truck,⁣
to get hit by it ⁣,
amidst the road towards the soul.⁣

Is this a meditation or a rhythmic scribbling? ⁣
Can I complete the story today?⁣

I need to go to the riverside shore⁣
walk leisurely, ⁣
ponder over the varied experiences,⁣
that life brings you as a gift.⁣

Just then a distant blare is heard from the road end.⁣
‘It must be the artsy truck!’.⁣
Knocking people off the road,
that they never often rode.⁣
I walked into the road briskly,⁣
checking the time,⁣
waiting for my turn. ⁣

Headlights from the truck engulfed the people standing beside the road.⁣
As the truck came by,
it hit all the people that I know.
It hit them so hard that people are tossed over, ⁣
their skulls were broken, ⁣
leaving them lying ⁣
bleeding on the ground.⁣
They all bled but inks and colors,
that littered the road.⁣

I saw the person driving the truck vaguely through the front glass.⁣
He had a hat and black shades,⁣
with a cigarette in his mouth.⁣
I waved at him cheerfully.⁣ ⁣
With a screeching break,
the truck halted before me.⁣

I didn’t wonder why.⁣
With words that lacked sincerity, ⁣
I tried to mumble something to the driver.⁣
But the truck bypassed me with a blaring loud horn.⁣
It might never strike people,
who don’t want to be real.⁣

If you ever find him today or tomorrow, ⁣
please tell him,
that I want to be run over by his truck.⁣

Miscellaneous Jargon

No one really knows themselves,
even though they say they clearly do.
Of all the things that anyone ever said,
there were things that no one entirely cared.
When the words themselves tremble alone to stand out,
the inability to express their face,
a phenomenon that no president wants to talk about or discuss.

Beyond any sensory business,
there is acclaimed to be something else,
where we hear the sounds of our vibrating hands and
see the sparkly fireflies emitting fire inside our heads.
Is it something we know if our antennas are angled properly right?
Unravel, unwrap the green blanket masking yourself for truth and
jump down that valley,
do you have the trust to plunge?

No not in you moron but
some other self you immensely love.
Misconceived concepts lead indeed to mad raves,
which you regret in your hindsight.
So, wave not save until you see that
she could trade her soul and her hopeless dreams.
You can cheat as well since this is not forbidden commerce after all.
It is just a mere matter not for sale.
Aren’t we all zombies living in bubbles,
with varied colored skins,
but similar aura and stink,
waiting to pop out in thin air?
But don’t shudder, don’t moan if you realize you are multifarious.
You truly are and I
couldn’t contain myself when life itself revealed itself one day.

Sense deep inward and outward until the senses fail to make sense.
And when you think you need to escape this world
just like semen wants to leave out a phallus,
a baby wants to come out of the uterus,
a pulp waits to burst out pustules,
to come out of this boring reality, friend,
you’re not alone as I too talk to my mirror every once in a while,
how much I want to enter through them,
globes inside weakly glaciers,
pupils inside your crystal eyes.

Thanks for your fake concern.
Just that I decided to reveal my thoughts,
it doesn’t grant you any legal authority to judge,
this pretentious intellectual fucker.
If you think you know yourself a lot,
should I trust you or suspiciously let you talk the talk until it’s over
and see that it doesn’t satisfy my soul.
But still, why do I think so much?
Jesus, Buddha, Krishna, and Muhammad –
often anticipate me.


I never knew I had kin with the words.
They were always there, waiting to call out for
whatever endeavor that I’m in.
They were always there
when my friends ditched me behind that dark forest fire.
I often wondered why? Why did it take so long to realize them?
Why this camaraderie with this self-absorbed man,
even when he pushed this world into a corner?
Why still baring, when everybody stopped caring,
about how I’m feeling?

Except for my mother, she thinks I’m one of her universes.
Feeling magically blessed!
When I hold my pen, I can feel their rejuvenation from within themselves.
Almost thrilled as if to know who I’m calling to join, along with me, onto
the world, through a blank dainty piece of paper.
And I’m often excited too when I see them form a band together for me,
anywhere, any day, anytime,
to be a part of my mission to flip the world upside down.

They were there for me
when the world chained me in my prison room.
Now that I’m indebted to them.

And I visit them someday, try to meet their friends, invite them over to have
a nice house party.
Each one of them is special to me.
And how mystically they form together,
sometimes highly powerful that they embrace a glow within the paper,
a fading glow that emanated from the ink that I bleed,
from my pen, the bridge that they travel through the wildest worlds,
from inner valleys to the tip of the nib.

They were there for me,when I was all alone,
in those darkest dungeons of my life.
And I hope they would be always there,
quietly reminding me who I’m,
when I ask the Universe ‘What’s conspiring ?’
Like a river that flows, let them flow incessantly.


‘Shoo away you Pixie Cupid! ⁣
Why! you making havoc always ?’⁣
Swirling in a revolving chair,⁣
my eyes met hers across the deck.⁣
Darts of electric fizz pierced the retinas⁣
blinding me, galvanizing the system down⁣
crashing, hanging, terminating my heart.exe⁣

Arrows were missed.⁣
‘How in the wildest probability did this happen?’⁣
wondered my wingman.⁣

The girl in the blue gown looked away⁣
gasping at my pervert gesture.⁣
‘Do you feel the same ?’⁣

With a choked mind, I deferred asking.⁣
The Introverted meek searched her number.⁣
Instagram, is the savior of lonely stalkers.⁣
Acceptance of my request rang merry bells.⁣
Lovely texts flew across the air.⁣
Halted my haughty interference by the adage⁣
“I’ve got a boyfriend!”⁣

Ships sunk deep, laboratories exploded ⁣
Butterflies got drunk, beers and wines⁣
Earth tremored, losing in those echoes⁣
the fighter inside me refused to give up.
Asked her out for a milkshake.⁣

Denied at once, affirmed seventeen days later.⁣
Chats filed up to lengthy textbooks.⁣
Hearing the owl’s hoots at night ⁣
had good times laughing and fussing.⁣
She smelt like Candy, not a free spirit.⁣

‘Should I try to win over her? ⁣
Does she even feel the same ?’⁣

Drenched in this desert rain,⁣
chasing all clueless mirages⁣
I know you’re lost just like anyone.⁣
Seven fishes in your vivarium know you⁣
better than you do, they whisper!⁣

Here I’m making the door stay open⁣
for you to come with me ⁣
Come out to the real world ⁣
for I am the oasis to your desert.⁣

Miles to go, behind on her ride,⁣
Untied hairs fall onto my face.⁣
She smelt like a Candy, not any free spirit⁣
I wished her to understand me ⁣
‘Do you even feel the same, Candy ?’⁣

Hearts pounded, twisting my nerves.⁣
Guts failed to chase her.⁣
Hand-shook modestly cited out I ⁣
“Let’s be newly found temporary friends”⁣

Candy nodded, beamed out widely⁣
I looked into her eyes for the last time.⁣
Crossed the road, walked the empty streets⁣
crying out loud inside, while she faded out.⁣

⁣Have you felt anything, Candy?⁣


When I won a poetry competition my
father drove all the way from his office to
watch me receive the award.
I refused to sit with him at first.
I preferred a seat thousands of kilometers away.

He turned around and looked for me.
His eyes were sad, unbelievable for his son
refusing to sit despite an eternal seat he held for him.
And I wished to ask him
“Where were you dad when I most wanted you?”

My father circulated a photograph of the event,
showing the neighborhood and his friends from work.
I was embarrassed and asked him not to do it.
He said, “At least you found yourself when others couldn’t”

The lady living in my neighborhood is worried,
About my contagious poetic sickness.
She warned her children,
“Pop paracetamols instead of poetries,
When you’re sick.”

And my girlfriend said she felt nothing
after reading the poem.
Although her tears weren’t fake.
I said it’s not about you.
She wanted the poem to be about her.
It was about her.

Those who couldn’t feel any poetry,
Unluckily popped paracetamols and sicked.
Others found themselves in its spring.
My father believed in its magic.
I wish I had sat with him that day.

Aswin Melepatt is an aspiring Indian English writer from Kerala, India. He is a data engineer by profession and loves to travel, read, meditate and have a warm tea.

Leave a Reply