Who can tell?
Whether malice has its own purity?
If odor has its own fragrant smell?

Does right wrong right
Or wrong right wrong?
Could darkness have its own light?

What do you know?
Guilt might have its own innocence
For all you know
Humility and modesty
Could just be a show

This is how life is
You either laugh hard
Or you cry in pain
You love too much
Or you die in vain

If you don’t make someone smile
You end up being a bore
If you dress up too guile
You are tagged a *****

You may be very pretty
but deceitful in act
You may be called ugly
but are beautiful in fact

In sadness
you’re creative
In happiness
well that is tentative
and yet sans it too
you may appear narrative

If you know too much
you realize how less you knew
If you are too ignorant
you realize that all lies are just few

Humor shames trivialities
Irony is the truth about absurdities
We scorn at all harsh realities
So we smile at its mockeries

Could love really be true?
And hatred absolutely false?

Is sadness a gloom
Covered in joy so sparse
like a dull audience
forced in its applause?

Without a doubt
A truth has a lie hidden
Simply because
The mirror isn’t clear
It hides many flaws
and your aesthetic sin
deep within

If you counted the seconds
and minutes and the hours
Will you still be wasting time?

Or would you still
have to make an orange juice
out of a dainty lime?

What’s rhetoric
if a question has an answer
if silence it’s own message
and guns and bullets
its own power?

What’s the point
If you’re devising a plan
for your future
to become a big man

And you still say
that you don’t know
what might happen tomorrow

That it all looks bleak and dark
And you sit there
not working hard
you crib and worry
and fake a smile
to everyone
you appear
as blithe as a lark

We dwell with glee
In a world where
two extremes meet
Order deals with its chaos
And chaos struggles for order

Everyone fights
for the latter
And to straighten
an imbalanced balance
and dispel a dulcet clatter.

This is about you.

A composition
of your perfect
imperfection

It’s about
your ample nose
placed
on your
sculpted face
scaling a symmetry
only I understand
but its intricacy
only God knows

You, with your dark eyes
in its shining
and its gloom
narrate stories
only I hear
and listen to.

How I seek pleasure
to solve
your dissonance
because you accepted
my woe
making it your own

When you play
songs on your lute
it’s like stars shoot
and harmony soars
over the bay

When you hit
a minor chord
and smile
you erase a plight
and make beauty
by something so odd  


You don’t force
a smart pun
a thoughtful gift
a witty remark
you just say and do it
I suppose
in effortless effort


You don’t just talk
you exchange
mental delight
in bold intellect
and subtle pride
in considerate stealth

you love poetry
the way you admire
irony
connection
and symphony

How your eyes seek mine
in a multitude
and shamelessly
acknowledge its find
baffles my mind

you’re deaf
to the blaring thoughts
of staring strangers
at us
or rather
you with me

you’re an enigma
in a way
that makes your sobriety
my toxic
your drunken state
my vulnerability

You don’t have to be
a man
or an angel
if either existed
I would seek
for you to be
the former

you don’t need
to have
the charm
of a woman
or a magician
to allure me

it’s perfect
when we look
at each other’s face
there’s nothing that
seems or feels
out of place

i can smile at you
in ease
and affection
never running out of it
for days

Because you’re only
the figment
of my vast imaginings
and you are beautiful

You’re someone out there
I will always hope to tell
about
the pink of pigs
to the purple of laughter
to the red of sad blood
and come running to
when I’m covered in mud

You’re either romance
in furtive stance
of a fake acquaintance

Or a doting friendship
with a silent lip
of promising actions

Or maybe
you’re just my dream
wrapped in an uncertainty
of becoming my reality
I would cherish

As I grow
I will wonder
and ask the universe
or the other
where in the world
are you right now?

what would it take
for me to get you
or get to you
somehow?

In this moment
I’m a petal of rose
Often mocked that I am one
By other flowers
Who look up to the same sun

I feel plucked from my root
Mangled and ****
I was born bare
That which was my beauty
But in this crude exposure
trapped in some snare
My skin burns in ******

I feel ghastly blows of wind
And wailing typhoon
Dent rustic parts of my skin
Scream its cacophony louder than my whimper of pain
Making me beg for a light drizzle of rain

I wonder how I would be
If I were a dandelion
I could let my fragments loose
And watch their flight
Into ethereal sunshine

I’m a trampled rose
Like the woe in Christ’s song
I’ve plagiarised the words
It seems
But this is how it feels
To be forlorn

And I have a mind of my own
Alas! That’s what I thought
Until I learnt that it’s supremely influenced
tainted and stale
Like a can of delight
Only store bought
off a bargain

What if I were only a little flower
whose shoot grew
Piercing out of a rocky crevice?

A small star
trying hard to shine its hardest
in its constellation
Blotted with sparkling lights?

How can I make myself known?
Do I have to?
Is it a sin? To be alone?
To be a petal of rose and please you?

Can’t I be my own?
A flower that doesn’t have a Latin root
That can shy away if touched
And bloom when in mood?

No, I really don’t want to stick to a season
And have visitors
gawk at me then
I want to be really loved in person
Even when I’m dying
and my stalk is bent

now, I wonder
Does a flower think so much?
Does it write a poem
When its feelings are fractured
And they need a crutch?

I’ve seen it be
Just lucid and carefree
And, all of a sudden
I’m jolted with an epiphany
of simply being.