I try to spend my time outside of myself
asking questions, learning lives,
anything that suppresses the memories.
The nagging voice reminding me.
It's not as safe as the world I live in.
But I'm aware that my mind
is expansive like Earth,
cluttered in some spots,
empty in others,
peaceful in the woods,
with battlecries in the cities.
Often misinterpreted-
full of the ocean and different versions
of everyone I know.
When the demons crawl up the ropes
I let them live in doodles
like ancient scrolls.
I send their resilience
to my dr. scholl's.
I try to think of the zen garden
behind where I work,
and that each concern
each worry
each blessing
are pebbles amongst captive nature.
And I am a bonsai thriving in it.
It just feels better to smile about that.

I look back to that period
of innocence
and deplore its brevity.

I recall when
we bathed ourselves
beneath the fountain of youth
and I believed
that our love would never die.

Was it a lie,
or just unspoken truth?

Every breath I took
brought me closer to you.
But it was not enough.
Why could I not understand
that all I lacked
was the recognition
that there was nothing
I needed
that I didn’t  already have?

It is a lifelong pattern.
A concern over what I might be missing
has always spoiled my
enjoyment
of what I already possess.

And while we continue
to blame others
for our own shortcomings,
we fail to recognise that
a voyage on
the vessel of forgiveness,
must begin with  forgiving oneself.

We have freedom of choice,
but apparently
we prefer to choose regret
rather than happiness.

All things are dust,
and to dust all things return
is a biblical pronouncement.
But while we may rail
against the losses and perils
of our existence
it is too easy to forget that
the bough may have broken,
but the tree still stands.

You are my Dante, you are my Vergil, you are my Beatrice, you are my devil. You are the spineless and endless tortured souls of men and woman who form horizons that never seem to end. You are the hung bodies in the trees of death, you are Cleopatra and Antony. In that never ending tornado of lust, cursed to spin and spin, conjoined in cursed love. You are the undeserving unborn who are tortured before they've ever even breathed dear life.

And I, I am only another accursed undead.

Winter is quiet, but always restless.
Irrevocably cold, and deceitfully burning.
Harsh at times, throwing storms of ice when tempered.
Apologetic, as it stews in silent shame.
Unforgiven, and tolerated.
A season which destroys beauty in order to create a kind of it's own.
Decorated, as if the beauty it created for itself hadn't been enough.

I never liked Winter very much,
but I've come to realize we've got a lot in common.

A cool December morning!
Today I rose much earlier than usual
I watch the night stealing away
Like an accused convict under cover

Sunlight peeks through the leaves.
In the haze of overhanging mist,
Only the blurred silhouette of trees in sight
The crows have begun their raucous call

The leaves of grass are misted with dew
A cool zephyr blows from the south
Clouds float like shredded cotton
Even Sirius, the brightest star has paled

Life is slowly beginning to unfold
And men like shadows have begun to move
The sun has now climbed to the Eastern hills
In scintillating glory like a mighty king

Shattering the mist with his lance like beams
He exults like a victorious warrior
His crystal rays rouse the sleeping birds
And they begin their chorus in wondrous rhyme

I enjoy the sweetness of this lovely morn
In serene silence, I stand and watch
The light that slowly fills the Earth,
Dispelling all trace of overhanging darkness!

Sitting idly and staring at the shadows of trees as the seasons pass. The sun comes and goes as  my days wile away. Time seems to have forgotten me as I sit in silence. I have journeyed far and wide and now I sit quietly and listen to the silence. I ache and I have grown tired from many labors, but the silence of patients is deafening. I wonder why I must be idle, but a quiet voice says not yet. I must sit a while and let others catch up with me. I must wait for the seed I have sewn to bare fruit. I must watch and see what God is doing behind the scenes. A small still voice says this is why you should wait on me.

Last night the sun didn’t set--
it fell.
It fell into the depths
of the ocean,
it fell into an abyss of stars.
No light is shed on your eyes
anymore, I am not
distracted by their
understanding hue.
The light fell from your smile,
and now every time
it feels new,
almost unfamiliar.
The sun fell from an era


Of longing, of ailment,
of competition, of pseudo-romance.
The room I made for you
in my heart
has no windows and the lightbulbs are out.
The future I made for you
in my mind
is dark.

It's dark tonight
And I cannot breathe
The hands of time
Are slowly choking me
Tick Tick
Watch the color
Fade from my face
Tick Tock
Watch my body
Fall through space
Caught inside
These hands of time
Losing my grip
Losing my mind
Tick Tick
Why can't I see
What these hands
Want from me
Tick Tock
I'm fading fast
This life is just a memory
That can never last

03:00
When I think about never speaking to him again, I picture a girl walking in a crowd that’s all moving in the same direction, and then suddenly she drops everything she’s holding and turns around and starts running as fast as she can, smiling and pushing past everyone till finally she reaches an open space and her face looks like sunshine as her hair blows behind her in the wind and she’s free she’s free, oh God, she’s free.

03:15
But then I think about walking into a doctor’s office ten years from now and sitting on a cold metal table, staring at my legs dangling off the edge, waiting. And then I look up as the door opens slowly, not expecting to see his tattooed arms hidden in a lab coat, but there he is and, oh God, his eyes haven’t changed, and I can’t breathe, and he just stands there, looking at me like an unfinished sentence. Then I’d have to let him put a stethoscope to my chest and listen to my heart and I wonder what it’d sound like, if it would sound like messy half beats of missing him. If he’d be able to tell. If he’d care.

03:30
Or maybe the next time I see him, if I ever see him again, we’ll both be whole versions of ourselves, content and in good places, our lives all sorted out and how we always hoped they’d be. And maybe we’d be able to talk about the weather and our kids and the lives we created apart. And maybe I’d be able to look at him with only feelings of pleasant acquaintance and relative indifference, not seeing the boy I fell for when I should’ve been focused on catching myself.

03:45
And I know I should find comfort in thinking about how one day I may look at him and feel nothing,

04:00
but it’s four in the morning and I don’t want to let go.

There's something like that.
It does exist, doesn't it?

Poverty, is earning less than ₹ 47 a day.

That's less than a dollar a day.
Who earns less than a dollar a day?
Beggars in Manhattan make more than that.

There is no poverty.
There's nothing like that.

Wait a minute: *beggars in Manhattan?