can you love me for what i am,
with all my complexity and indecision
with all my faults and speckles,
my near-sighted imprecision

could you not put me on the social stratum,
looking through the lens of meritocricy
not to count my posessions and achievements,
level me with bittersweet verbosity

can you spare me of doubt, that clouds your relative judgement
see with all my ugliness and ridicule
love as days go by
as joy subside
as colors turn bleak
and darkness arise.

can you accept my immature writing,
filled with ill-arranged words
or the way i talk through stutter and occasional sighs.
forgive my incapacity for kindness,
awkward attempts to win your heart.

His love for her was most pristine,
so he could never think of anything bad.
She was the most high moon for him.
Though distant,
he yearned for a little shine,
every lonely night.
But he knew deep inside,
that its only a wish.
She was quite a cruel
and rather selfish.
How could the moon, so sublime in nature,
care for a man, treading the earth.
Instead, she looked up to the sun,
glittering in gold.
Stared in awe,
intoxicated by its radiant light.
It was her dream,
one day,
one night,
for the sun, to be the lovely bride.
But the man kept faith
and the man endured,
to receive from the moon a kind
salute.
He wanted nothing in return,
only gentle smile,
be it truth or the lie,
could give everything,
even heart or the soul,
but the cold face of the moon
would never turn below.

On sunset i settled down to complete the morning verse,
to wash away the load of day's fuss and come clean,
to forget the intentions and cut the excitements short.
I come my place, leaving a part of me outside,
killing the noise at doorstep,
becoming oblivious of daily routine,
ready to start anew in the silence of darkness.
Let's celebrate the darkness.
Let's celebrate the silence.

There are two weapons at man’s disposal:
one is instinct, another’s logic
whether moral or immoral
they are bound to be in quarrel.
Use the first or the last.
It doesnt matter, just be fast!
While the master up above
will roll the dice and flabbergast,
you might still have the chance,
to make decision and hold your stance

There are moments in the past,
that you want to be at
and you know, they'd never last
- it's so sad
because the present is a line in the sand,
between future and the past,
between ocean and the land,
between river and the bank,
that will never come to end.
And tell me friend
what's the use of being sane.
in the hours, that remain.

You came to me around a time
when i was extremely vulnerable,
stripped to the feet of my soul,
you struck me to sunder.
I was captivated by the radiance of your spirit,
for i was blind.
My thirsty and depleted mind fell prey to your magic,
your play of words,
your dance of thoughts.
I had no means to defend.
I was hopeless before your charms.
This came,
for i was always drawn to mysterious spirits,
ones originating contagious wisdom,
who talk through glances,
who laugh with eyes.
what is more pleasant than a discourse of mates,
fallen in love with each others mind.
I feel,
I could lay down my life for the unlocker of my soul,
who splashes back my reflection.
Why is so hard to find the sighted.
All around me are men
in darkness
with eyes wide open,
foreheads perennially knocking the wall.
I'll keep wandering,
for it is the best i can.

I believe a place has a soul
where memories and
feelings are stored.
Either joy of meetings or
breakups' remorse
still resides there
waiting for rebirth.

Revisiting withered memories became my lot,
since i've lost the trail of time,
flashing past moments in my head. As if i was uprooted from the ground, floating in a limbo.
It is a strange feeling to loose the sense of reality,
when all rules and connections are gone awry,
when everything boils down to a single truth.
I sense in that particular moment, that life is a fast-forwarded footage
of events that have no gravity at all
and leaves a bitter yearning for forgotten feelings,
like sea tides ebbing and flowing,
pushing and pulling, it gently floats one into oblivion where all meaning is broken,
where everything is void.

I hate the blues tonight,
coz its no use to grieve the broken heart.
There is no point in being right
in this meaningless fight,
when all are happy to be wrong.
I don't want to make a wish
nor i want to dream of you.
Tonight i yearn for simple thing,
to keep silence without the blues.
i am done thinking of fellow men,
their holy grace or miserable lot,
counting blessings,
dreading faults,
bashing head against shut doors,
rushing to open slots.
now i am eager to be real,
i want to feel the ground
to burn the traces of figments,
shout the truth out loud
I dont care if one cares,
how spooky looks,
how right the words.
Crowds will stir and stare,
but won't dare
to come near of my sword.
I've lost the steam but I've got the  fire
to crush the pillars of this world.
No matter how my fate is dire
I'll tread against the will of fools.

Its sad, that death is the only tangible truth.
I'd like to wish for something else, but everything is a hoax.
Our love is a figment, that reason will dissolve,
a queer thought, passing through my mind to a place of no return.

mind is full of uncertainty
and will is chained to ground
heart is choking under the weight of loneliness
and it seems there is no way out

don't have memories to recall
all are gone like momentary joy
and faces of people i used to know
can tell anything no more

i have never been to this kind of state
with no hope and no regret
jolted by the wind of fate
here and there, pathetic and disgraced

I indulge myself in poetry, when i am in pain.
It helps to cushion the fatal blows.
Its my last resort,
when everything has failed.
When felt perplexed,
I rush to conjure another verse,
to purge fuzziness from my head.
It is a remedy for a broken soul.
I breathe with poetry.
I heal with it.

I am not afraid that people can hurt,
that love may conceal a terrible revelation,
that truth has no sense,
that reason may not apply sometimes,
so i keep poems by my side,
to kindle the feelings inside,
to save the humor for the darkest nights.

Words are my clouds,
to soar in the sky,
to build castles of imagination,
to play with shapes,
to chase shadows,
to flicker the lights.

This craft is old as human spirit.
It is pure and clear as mountain creek,
a mysterious trait in our hearts.
Perhaps, it is a nonsense
of feeling lonesome,
an uncanny substance
with no form and meaning
or alluring thought for feeble minds.
I can't tell for sure.
But it is a hallmark of all times.

Man is so bogged down in confusion,
he is subject to circumstances,
his life is highly preconditioned,
his choices are predetermined,
thoughts are arranged for him,
I wonder, what does he has at the end?
What is mine, for God's sake?!

Is it possible to have a real empathy,
so deep and intimate, that you may talk
without uttering a word?
Is there a way to emulate mindset,
to accommodate a foreign feeling,
to live through strange emotions?
Is one right to write about stranger's experiences
or one has to undergo the same spectrum of joy and sorrow
to compose their true and vivid story?
Is a writer eligible to speak for others?
Who endowed him with urgency to draw conclusions
on life and death?
Why does he reside in his own world, enclosed in mystery,
oblivious of daily struggle
and decides on matters unknown to him?
Can such a complexity of life be inferred
by his mercurial mind?

This world is made for the heartless and insane,
who doesn't have compassion and feel no pain,
but for the thoughtful and wise,
who are conscious of divine,
its just a passing of time.

Whether I count places I've never been,
and friends I hadn't
Perhaps,
it doesn't matter,
for as long as I live, I keep them forgetting.
Encounters I could have had,
romances I might have enjoyed,
- it's all a figment in the end,
wishful dream,
after all.
My heart is cold,
though sun is shining,
and I remember what you've told on the day of departing,
that I am ridiculously old,
and my jokes are disgusting,
then you left and said nothing,
but since I hadn't changed a bit,
and I am still discussing,
the subtleties of good and bad,
in my head,
the peculiarities I've never had,
and how you loved me undiscovered.
I wish I dreamt of you coming back
but the moment is never endless,
and no greater joy will heal me out,
cause my sickness
   - is my sadness.

Farook M.S.

The day was nice.
The sky was clear,
and the sun was rising above,
but I had a fear
of dark clouds approaching from a far distance,
as far as I can see them.
I thought,
I might loose this beautiful day from the doubt that shrouded my cheer,
that the hope isn't real,
and its fooling me into believing in the seeming future
of the day I am dreaming.
Then I thought again and had a peace,
for at least
I've seen the dawn and the glimpse of sunrise,
that will keep me going on,
despite the looming sadness of would be loss.
I am content with this moment,
and have no aspiration for things to come,
for I've lost the fear to hope,
and killed them both,
under the rising sun.

Find the one with compassion and not contempt, for a fellow man.
Who doesn't stand out or gives impression, just a simple man.
Whose talk is short and neat, but expressions tell you much.
Find someone, who will give in need, when others leave you behind.
Who doesn't ask pay for a good and love you for other things.
Find the one, who shares food and drink, as well as your weighty burden, despite the hardships and ease.
Seek the honest, though naïve, who doesn't cheat and steal.
And not the one, of high status, who will mock you in your grief.
He, who quite, doesn't brag and raise his self-esteem,
Find the humble, though courageous, who believe in the wildest dreams.

Solemn abode of history unknown,
an abandoned house stands on its own,
with wearied walls and swinging shutters,
with dusty window panes and bended gutters.
It was a place of joy and now its in disaster,
with time hammering harder and faster.
No hope resides there,
only despair everlasting.
The spirit left it long ago,
leaving void and the shadows of its masters,
with old laughters still echoing the rooms,
celebrating hollowness they cant voice,
though their stories are vibrant as the colors of past days.
A sudden look will immerse its caster, in mysterious strands of memories,
pleading and asking.
Were the bygone days an illusion or reality?