"She was an
unusual dresser.
Every night,
she wore bruises
on her heart,
love on her lips,
pain in her eyes,
and ink on her fingers.
They called her poetry."

Do not wait
for someone
to offer you
their world.
Remember,
you have your own.

Why I only wear Shiny shoes?

Every morning,
I would wear my shiny shoes
and run off to the field
for a game of football
and come back bruised and scarred
bleeding out of my mouth
but I was smiling.
You see, my shoes were still shiny.
Every morning,
I would go to school
bragging about my shiny shoes
and come back
with dried tears
and red hands as if
someone hit them really hard
but I was smiling.
You see, my shoes were still shiny.
Every morning,
I would see my friend
waving at me from a distance.
We were our only friends.
I was his SpongeBob, he was my Patrick.
One day, Patrick left.
But I was smiling,
You see, my shoes were still shiny.
All this while,
Nobody cared that the
insides of my shoes were
being torn apart
because my shoes were still shiny,
because I was still smiling.

And did I tell you
about how the
sunflowers
you painted on my skin
crave for you
every morning
yet the winter
never ends.

Where are you, my sunshine?

This morning
I woke up
and thought
all my poetries
were over
but then I saw her
smiling in her sleep
and there it was,
love, yet again.

Do you see
the generation today,
my generation struggling
emotionally
having jarred into their heads
that it's not okay to cry
that it's not good to cry
that it's going to be alright
if you would just stop crying
if you would just wipe the tears off
that crying is for the weak (oh my son is not weak)
that crying wouldn't help
that crying is for the enemies
my generation
was served a lie on the platter
and we gulped it down
our throats without a thought
so that if we ever choke with tears
we'd gulp the lie over and over again
but mothers and fathers
look yourselves in the eye
and tell me if shedding a few tears
didn't turn down your grief
and tell me if shedding a few tears
made you any less a man
made you any less a woman
made you any less a human
Mothers and fathers
look your children in the eye
and tell them
crying is just another emotion
that has the ability
to sit down with your heart
in moments of grief
and be the friend
it needs the most.
tell them
crying is for the strong
crying is for those who feel
crying is for everyone
tell them
crying is okay.
crying is good.

Every once
in a while
I would take
off my body
and wear her.
I never looked better.

When your heart feels heavy:

1. Sit down in silence
2. Take off your shoulders
3. Hear your bones crack
4. Let your eyes breathe
5. Whisper to your heart,
it's home.

How do you forget
the first time
she smiled for you
the first time
she held your hand
the first time
she cried in your arms
the first time
you looked at each other
and froze in the moment
the first time
you knew what love was.

Can the moon
erase the sun
off its memory?

Dripping
from the neck
to your collarbones
the sweat on your skin
meets your musky perfume
and leaves a scent
which makes my heart
run like a mad man.

Darling,
you're much more than
those three little words.

Her lips.
Rose petals
dipped in honey.

"And her smile
was made of flowers that
united the lovers
comforted the dead
and
grew on my heart."

Have you ever stared
at a blank piece of paper
for so long
it starts turning into
a concert of unanswered questions
posed by a teenager
who is awakened
about his sexuality
which was long repressed
under the secrets
he was asked to keep
the things he had to hide
the pain he slid under the carpet
with a smile on his face
he was no snitch
he liked keeping
the paper blank
he was a good boy
who could keep things with him
the boy was in deep sleep,
that boy, he was in deep sleep,
and now he is awake
he knows what he lost
he knows what's good and
what's bad
he knows
the world will question him
why he didn't speak earlier
why now
why now
why now
the world will eat him up
but he knows at this point
nothing matters to him more
than what he lost
than what is ahead
give me my childhood
give me my childhood
give me my childhood
he screams
he stutters
he cries
I am done
I am awake
I am free
it's time to color this page black
it's time to turn the page.

When I write about love
I draw ink
from my own blood.
You see,
Flowers need their
own seeds to bloom.

Until her scars
are ingrained
on the texture
of your skin,
Until her pain
flows through
the cracks of
your bones,
do not tell me
you love her.
do not tell me
she is your home.

Bid goodbye
to the dreams
you left behind.
They are no
reason to lose sleep.

There's nothing
that a bottle of
whiskey couldn't
make me forget

except
the way you loved me.

Giving others
the roses of your life
while holding them
by the thorns
is sacrifice
and
sacrifice is pity, not love.

"And she would run her
gentle, icy fingers
through my hair
like frosty wind
would caress me
on cold winter mornings."

Once
I used to stay
on the second floor
of a worn out building
which had only half a window
and a small view of the
nearby quiet street
which had one tea stall
where worked Raju,
the boy in striped pajamas.
There wasn't a day
when he wouldn't smile
or sing his favorite
Kishore Kumar songs.
There wasn't a day
when he wouldn't get
beaten up by the owner of the shop
for breaking a glass or two
when he would bring back
the empty ones spellbound
by the tunes of Lalita aunty,
the 70 year old classical singer
living on the ground floor.
There wasn't a day
when he slept on a nice warm bed
instead of the footpath
adjoining the shop.
I would always wonder
about the secret of his happiness
and everytime I would ask him
he would laugh and tell me,
some other time.
Time passed and
I moved to another city
trying to find my peace
between changing jobs
and finding love
and all this time
I would wonder
what made Raju so happy
so one day I went back there,
handing Raju a 10 Rs. Note
and told him,
today I'm not here for the tea,
I am here for the secret.
Before Raju could say
some other time
I told him
not this time.
Raju smiled, sat beside me, and
said - "I am content with what I have. My mother loves me. I am helping my sister study to become a doctor. There's not been a day that I didn't have food to eat. I have all I need - family and love. I am sure you'll find your peace one day."
After that day,
I stopped searching for peace
in all the places it wasn't there
because it was always inside me.
I was my peace.

"And in this world
of dry souls,
she fills the air
with the smell of
rain soaked soil."

Her body.
the only wonder
of the world
I wanted to visit.
the smudged mascara,
the rosy moist lips,
the sheets on the floor,
the only mess
I ever wanted to create.
Oh, my heart!

"Would you look at
all these free souls
carrying their cages
wherever they go?"

People are free. their minds free. their speech free. free from slavery. free. but are they truly, free? They have built cages for themselves. They never want to come out of them. We pray to God. unquestionably. unfailingly. but why do we fail to question the real reason why we pray to God? why are we searching for him in statues and people when we know he left this place a long time ago? and if he didn't leave, why do we celebrate what he created and not question what he destroyed? why do we fight to save someone we can't see or feel against the very people he created?
Until people come out of the cages, we may never get the answer to these questions.

Love in such a way
that you never
have to look back.

Never apologize for
being who you are.
Only you know the
depth of the ocean
you took a dive in.

Bruised.
Beaten.
Thrashed.
Yet,
you remained soft.
I think you
are made of water.

And everytime
I put my arms
around her,
I burn.

- Oh, she's fire.

And do me a favor,
write me
in your letters
and keep me
between the pages
of your diary.
Right where
the dead rose lies.

For you,
I would die
a thousand deaths
if you
would just let me
live one
with you.

And I always wonder
about the land
Rumi talked about.
I have a feeling
we met there.

And today,
I want to paint
dreams for you.
Dreams painted
between the gaps
of our fingers.
Sipid and Wild.

Imagine:

An old dusky room on the outskirts of the city. The view from the broken window is a small garden, a puppy, and a kitten. Inside, I am sitting on my study table with an half empty bottle of old ***. There is a noise of typewriter in the air and a smell of books. You pour a hot cup of tea in the saucer and move your hand towards me. I look into your eyes as I take a sip from the saucer. Hands meet hands, eyes meet eyes, lips meet lips. Do you not dream of creating a poetry such as this?

Unbutton the love
that's choking
your neck.

Perhaps,
the grass will never know
the joy of flowing in the wind.
It's too stubborn to let go.
It's too arrogant to know
that the earth holds it,
not the other way round.

And when you leave
I want you to
put your lips onto mine
one last time.
It is the closest
I'll ever feel to love again.

And I do not intend to
carve your name on stones
and make you my god
but I do intend to
carve it in a corner
of my heart so that
whenever blood would
rush through my veins
you are the first thing
my heart would remind me of.

And let me
lead you to the sunset
and melt
into your arms.
I always wanted to
sleep holding
the moon by my side.

And tomorrow
when you wake up
do not be afraid
to embrace the
empty side of your bed
and tell your heart
there are greater wars
to be won.

Every once in a while
I feel the need
to embrace silence
not to rid myself of the world
but to remind myself
I exist.

- Sometimes, the noise makes me feel lost.

What if
I promise
to find you
in each dimension
and love you the same,
would you still tell me
I'm not enough?

And she was a city
borne off massacres
stuck on the idea that
only love could heal her.

The half broken mirror kept
in the forgotten corner of
my house
tells me stories of a man.
The half broken mirror tells me
the man would look at
the mirror for hours
smoking his favorite cigars
until his ashtray was full.
The half broken mirror tells me
the man would look at
the mirror for hours
weeping tears of tar
until his heart was full.
The half broken mirror tells me
the man would look at
the mirror for hours
telling stories of strange lands
until his eyes were full.
The half broken mirror tells me
the man would look at
the mirror for hours
reciting the name of a woman
until his soul was full.
The half broken mirror tells me
that it would often
see itself in the man.

rub sunshine in your heart
bathe your soul in the ocean
sing songs for your bones
feed the moon to your eyes

That's how flowers bloom.

Do not romanticize
loneliness
to a point
that you become
a part of it.

"In all that
you left behind,
you only came
closer to home.
you only came
closer to yourself."

"And her lips
were made of cigarettes
that touched mine
and turned us into smoke."

One day
I met a girl
bloomy and tall
she wore sunshine
in her eyes
her hair prisoners
of the wind
and when she smiled
the moon arrived
yet when she cried
her tears resembled
petals, soft and purple
I think she was
made of flowers.

"And her hair
were like the ocean
that fell onto me
like strong wind tides
and turned me into salt."

Imagine.
You.
Young in love.
Nothing to lose
but your heart.
That's how tragedies start.