ABOUT THE POEM: This is Ronie Dinosaur’s declaration of war against the universe itself. Born Navodit Kumar, once praised as a modern Shiva—snake-charmer, wanderer, magnetic and untamed—he watched everything he built get crushed by unseen hands: ambitions poisoned, bonds severed, victories stolen. The world turned his sorrow into spectacle while pretending to pity him. Instead of breaking, he fossilized into something prehistoric and furious: Ronie Dinosaur, a self-made monster who refuses extinction. The poem is his ritual exorcism. Every stanza is a swing at the coward god who attacks through proxies—fate, time, people turned into puppets. He rejects hope as poison, runs on pure defiance, and rewrites his legend from tragic drifter to apex predator. The Buddha reference is deliberate sacrilege: where the enlightened one sought to redeem the murderer Angulimāl, Ronie hunts his own tormentor, craving not salvation but legendary grief. This is not therapy. This is arson. A lone voice daring the cosmos to step into the light while he burns every marionette string, reclaims every stolen piece of himself, and crowns his pain. Ronie Dinosaur is still alive—and tonight the fire speaks louder than heaven ever could.To whom have I spoken?
What did I say this time?
Have I cursed you too,
you fucking universe-
the only reason I’m like this?
You fucking coward,
attacking from the shadows.
Face me.
Face me like a man.
Man to man.
Then we’ll see.
You will see.
I will see.
Hope is a dangerous thing.
I don’t touch it.
I run on determination alone.
I will change this whole scenario-from
“People used to say I was a snake charmer, wandering like Shiva,”
to
“He used to walk in style like mine,
and he fashioned sorrow for appeal.”
I have a swagger of my own.
I am original.
My character won’t let me lose.
You may win-
but I won’t let you choose.
And I’m not just naming it to name it-
all attitude, no substance, no bite?
Come closer, spineless.
Pray to whatever god hands you your fate.
I dare him, if he’s there, to look me in the eye
and weigh what I’m made of.
My intent is clear.
I want nothing
except you getting out of my way.
But yours is not clear,
you snake.
This neither weakness nor habit,
but when the rage peaks,
this is how I masturbate my own mind back to calm:
searching for the pieces of myself
that time has stolen,
and the ones I’m still searching to reclaim.
My state is becoming my right.
This is my fight.
Ronie Dinosaur is still alive,
here tonight.
You want to play with me like a toy,
knowing yourself through me.
I deny that.
I demand a discharge from this fucking façade.
Stop using pawns to belittle me,
and cut the strings of puppets who dance to your will.
Buddha was not looking for Angulimāl,
but I am.
But why?
It’s a human condition-
perhaps I want my grief to get famous.
