I hated the chapter ‘Symmetry’ in my fifth standard mathematics text book for this one reason.

I want to make origami,

A peacock, a rabbit or a hat.

But it should have perfect lines,

 

Like the ones I expect my friends to keep,

The way life tumbles me down, yet never raises,

How I get stoned and I can only see lines on clothes,

My genealogy in straight lines, roots and branches,

And write words; placed on clean and neat lines,

Walk on a straight line after getting drunk; a test for your beer holding capacity.

 

I am a child,

I draw lines. Everywhere,

On my bed. On my body. On my words.

And the most perfect one in my mind.

 

And even the two sides of my spectacles,

Are not fucking same.

 

 

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