You Think You Know Me?

Poetry is often at its best when it refuses to be neat. True to the spirit of a loving rascal, this piece is a collection of beautiful contradictions—mixing the chaotic energy of football, the stinging reality of social divides, and the raw, unedited nature of real love. It is an invitation to look past the surface and see what it truly means to know someone. Here is "You Think You Know Me?"

 

To know me, you must first learn how to feel.

You must hold the green rage of betrayal deep inside,

Turning your face upward to seek comfort from above,

Only to find it falling softly as the rain.

And in that downpour, you must unleash a curved Messi left-footer

—A ball borrowed from a Spanish fan—

Painting a messy red, dangerous yet full of fun.

You must dance when those skies break open,

And taste the cold sweetness of ice cream in the storm.

You must find the same wonder in the burning sun,

As you do in the silver moon and stardust.

 

You cannot look away from the concrete floor,

Where the beggar, the orphan, and the broken man lie.

You must read the quiet map of a child’s heavy tears,

Woven from the weight of expectations and broken promises.

You must feel the ache of the old man’s hands,

Still working for bread, though the world owes him rest.

 

And you must know the sacred madness of a wild love,

That breaks through the rigid walls of class,

And shatters the neat lines of pride and hygiene.

A love caught unawares by an Al-Gult dance at the tea break,

Stunned by a strong handshake at the gathering,

Followed by the innocent nudge and a downward glance

—A reminder of where I belong, 

placing Lays and Coke on a brown bench,

Casting me as a messed-up Spanish fan,

Yet filled with love for 

the one and only Messi, the Argentine.

 

It is a love captivated by one quick to laugh, cry, and rage

—Whose tears shattered my heart into twenty-five thousand pieces one afternoon,

Leaving me lost, drowning in my own downpour.

Her laughter fills the heavy air like the sweet lingering aroma of the rich brown dessert,

Warm with its elaichi effects.

Perhaps they see her as emotionally immature,

Or maybe she is infinitely healthier than those who mask their truth

Beneath heavy makeup and rehearsed behaviors.

 

It is a love captivated by the angry one in the repository of knowledge,

A love that chooses to let the cup slip away

—Sacrificially messy all the way—

Holding back its own tears to guard another heart from breaking.

If your heart does not break and burn for these things,

If you only see a stranger staring, lost in thought,

While my brain was just making a brown-shirt day look beautiful,

You will only ever look at me—but you will never truly know me.

–Thank you, AI for polishing my writing.