The Mirrors and the Reflections,
this fresh breeze and the sunlight,
these inanimate realities
and their oxymoronic existence
amazes inner child within me.
I am not a painter,
I am just a man
with a taste for colors.
I delve into them,
till the hues whisper words
that fly like butterflies.
I am not a lepidopterist(butterfly scientist)
I am just a man
with a thirst for writing.
I collect and nurture them,
till they look like a beautiful painting
made out of unseen words.
I am not a poet,
I am just a man,
with a love for beauty.
I just let the beauty flow,
like the never-ending seas
for purposes unknown.
Jul 13, 2024
Jul 13, 2024 at 3:27 AM UTC
sea’s clandestine love-
this calling, so desperate
yes, step now slowly
for the somber hues-
and an unforgiving storm :
seek abyss within.
Feb 10, 2022
Feb 10, 2022 at 9:46 AM UTC
Love is like a Parisian night,
To which fanciful fools are drawn;
But tower lights, and stars alike,
All fade away at dawn.
Jul 15, 2021
Jul 15, 2021 at 12:57 AM UTC
We are like the universe and the stars,
visible only at the night,
Inside one another,
Burning bright
Without shame.
Without tiring.
Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 7:46 AM UTC
Poseidon's hellhound
slithers in remorseless seas
bloodbaths are just feast
Jun 11, 2018
Jun 11, 2018 at 2:16 AM UTC
black coffee on the table,
clean cold steel-chiselled Glock
loaded and placed in the bed-drawer.
The sharp wire that smells of the skins
and flesh it has strangulated. A black pair
of gumboots, a black overcoat, a black void
of past. A distant daughter who loves strawberries,
cats with abhorrence for your existence.
Cadillac, a pair to tan gloves, a love for silence,
love for the sight of eyes turning red, pleading
A packet of cigarettes, a bottle of Miller’s
An emptiness that spreads, a death that patiently lives.
Jun 5, 2018
Jun 5, 2018 at 4:29 AM UTC
How hard would it be
to be made of flesh and be mortal,
to dream of all the tastes,
and go wet uncontrollably.
To lick your mirror image
in her mouth slowly,
and be satisfied in sometime,
but still, lack a dearth of reason,
to entwine
into a thousand unseen motions,
to caress the nothingness in air
and become understood in front
of all the living.
to be a tongue,
and be a language
and exist
but not noticed
ever.
May 17, 2018
May 17, 2018 at 4:04 AM UTC
It begins with
a melodious blur
as a taste of forgetfulness slithers
over my humble skin.
A yearning evolves slowly,
to disappear away
from this meaningless pursuit of flesh,
we are trapped by our existence
and nothing else.
I trespass within myself,
in search of a purpose,
in the hidden sanctums of my delusion,
where blues waves greet my feet,
and the sky made of ice
howls with terrible winds, at my timidity.
It never rains,
But I always forget to stride aimlessly,
these hungry eyes are served
with sumptuous visions,
and till my hands bleed
this hallucination copulates
with my reality.
I finally learn to float
within myself.
I pen all of it down,
in the night
and call them as Art
in the morning.
May 8, 2018
May 8, 2018 at 2:14 AM UTC
I was cuddled up in a sheet that day,
watching the raindrops trace on my reflection,
on the dusty window.
A sound of a drop reverberated more
than the ghastly silence.
In a few minutes, the dust melted away.
The sky wasn’t bright, neither was it dark.
It was an essential gray, promising of a tempting void
that smelled of a fresh petrichor
and a floor made of broken glasses
that has forgotten to bleed the flesh.
I fed my everlasting reflections
to these broken mirrors
till the floor smelled of my debauchery
of selling facades of appeasement
I made a tryst with myself,
to be brutally honest
to my purpose on this planet.
And so, here am I,
abiding the tryst,
It’s the mellow beginning.
A warm end awaits, I believe.
Apr 3, 2018
Apr 3, 2018 at 8:34 AM UTC
It happens sometimes
between winter and the sultry summer,
my words and visions refuse to mate,
no amount of alcohol urges them
to this universal transfixion
on a piece of a patient paper
I have no choice left,
I visit the dusted mirror
in my inhospitable washroom again
the vortex of time swallows me inherently,
as I fall through the voiceless oceans
and painstaking cheap bars
that are out of beer.
I walk through the autumnal rains
where the birds have learned to hide
and the leaves refuse to be touched.
The maidens are no longer beautiful,
Houses full of Japanese crockery
and European paintings
are half submerged in filthy ponds
to be admired by filthy fishes
with filthy brains.
The kids are running and laughing
on the roads but I can’t see their faces.
The dogs no longer bark, but they have
tears of joy and my hands have forgotten to
pet these loyal creatures. Their tails don’t wag now.
They refuse to acknowledge my existence.
I see my twin somewhere.
The only one who smiles back at me.
Contented but not happy,
his eyes are his stories,
his soft hands; devoid of typing
are his unwritten poems.
I have to **** him.
Before he swims out of this vortex.
Before he swims into me.
Before he falls in love with himself.
Mar 25, 2018
Mar 25, 2018 at 2:22 PM UTC