Life has ups and downs
Smiles and frowns
Depression and six rounds
I'll smile in the mirror
As the gun sounds

pain is a permanent marker
unremovable like coffee stains on carpet
undoable like stomach knots
unalterable like bad surgery
unwanted tattoos tell the truth

reminder of pain imprints in flesh
indelible ink writing on private parts
ingrained in memory like ***** rings around a tub
surgery scars reveal new skin

entrenched in the brain
pushed to the back of the mind
pain recorded, hidden, collated, undeleted
recycled every 14 days
triggered by foul smell, bad tastes and bitter tea

badly drawn with a pen
pain is a permanent marker
forever and binding

Eyes are so simple
Yet so mysterious

A quick glance can tell you
What they're conveying
But the longer you look
The more depths
You discover

Not Black,
Not white,
Nor Brown,
If it is living being,
It matters.
Love all,
Be kind,
Be happy.
--Jayalalita B Iyer

When dreams are so vivid,
all my memories get rigid.
As I don't know which are real,
but nothing has ever been ideal.
So I'll simply write about thee
As I sip my confusion smoothie.

intending a sip
but end up taking a dip

when unrestrained the urge
one is bound to submerge

a desire untamed
none to be blamed

restraining self is the best way
otherwise be ready to pay....

do you ever think that
maybe the sun gets tired
that maybe she just needs
one night to herself
just one night to sleep
one day off to let
her fiery hair down
to find an ocean
big enough to swim through
a river wide enough
to float down

do you think she minds
that we write so many
poems to the moon
that we marvel
in awe and wonder
mesmerized by the moons light
forgetting even at night
its her light
lighting our way

do you ever wonder
what it must be like
to always be rising
to always be out
to always be hanging
somewhere in the sky
to always feel the fires burning

to never know the joy
of a cool breeze
to never find shelter from the heat
in the shade of a great oak tree
to never have your hands
go numb from playing in the snow

what must it be like to be the sun
do you ever stop to think
how tired she must be
to always be burning
burning so bright
all that light
all that warmth
keeping this earth alive

do you think she minds
all the poems we write to the moon
that we stay up so late
sleep in so often
and treat doing so as a luxury
that we relish the time
she is absent from the sky
do you think she minds