I am a distorted man

i am a distorted man,

from inside.
i draw disfigured figures
distorted,
from outside.
i write poems,
incoherent,
trying to write something
beautiful in distortion.
I think about strange things
like the leaves that the tree
abandoned yesterday,
but why did it abandon them?
maybe, they were distorted ,
like the figures I draw,
from outside.
neglected people in rags,
in squalid corners,
made invisible by the
blinding brightness of the world
catch my attention,
I want to talk to them,
because I know
they are perfect
like everybody is,
in their own distortions.

Last summer

I sit cross legged,
angled on the wall of my balcony,
brushing my teeth.
Last summer,
I had detached a glass pane
from my window
and placed it
in my balcony-
I see a tree rhythmically,
melodiously, swaying in it.
Its nostalgic, melancholic
how it undulates
at another
cusp of summer,
late in the afternoon
as my mouth
becomes full of
white silica foam.
The breeze is lukewarm
and the wall bears
no sign of Sun.
Suddenly, the clouds shift,
the Sun emerging
jostling away from the
blue and silver clouds
and the glass pane
shines,
a mocking and ludicruous sheen
drowning
the music of the trees
with its gaudy gesture.