Little Things Matter Poem by Riya Sachdeva

The world might end any day.
Fear is a feeling. Scary. 
It's 10: 40 a.m.
I want to connect
With things. People. 

Mankind is quarantining.
A bird visits my house every day.
She knows what social distancing is. 
You go close, and she flies away.

I speak too much sometimes
to regret about it later.
I don't have anything in my head
even after 15 hours.
I cough it hard to vomit on paper.
My throat hurts. 

Some people talk with food in their mouth.
I don't find it irritating anymore.
These people don't know their charm.
They would love to know, sometime.

I don't know the difference;
mandarin, tangerine, orange and clementine. 
I am more confused than ever.

I keep a close eye on news.
Still, I miss on some updates.
A guy pretending evil intention
seeks pleasure when people die.
He says things that he never mean.

I break things fragile.
The lines more than ever.
Heart break hurts.
People cry.

I talk very less in poetry.
This is no style of writing.
A man with an aesthetic sense
tells me to smile often.
I don't know how to conclude.
It's 10: 57 a.m.
I close my notebook to forget if this piece exists.