Full of wrinkle and ridges,
It has a face of it’s own.
Is not appealing to look at,
and it rests on my shoulder bone.
Like a little tilted crown just resting there,
I kind of like it, when they stare.
Even though not in the way that I would want,
but it gets me attention anyway,
so why wouldn’t I flaunt?
I’m so proud of this part of me,
because it’s a reflection,
and also a memory.
When I look down at it, I smile,
It’s been the best statement to make,
it’s always in style.
Who knew I would grow to love tea so much,
especially after what it did to me,
well, I started to love what it left me with too,
a dauntingly beautiful scar, that is such.

Not with your pear-shaped eyes which are a perfect colour of brown,
Or what they do to me when you look my way.
Not with that deep-bass voice of yours that's so **** ****,
and how it keeps me glued to the phone.
Not with how you have this way with words,
and how you sound so charming and cheesy all at once.  
Not even with that, half naughty-half innocent crescent between your cheeks, and how it's stuck, when we share an inside joke in public.
Not with that strong musky scent of yours that reels me in so bad,
Or how it turns me on when I just think about it on my skin.
Not with how you make me laugh at you and then with you,
and then even wipe my tears of laughter.
No.
Not with just these things.
They have been loved enough.
But, I do want to fall in love with everything about you...
that the others never did.

"No, let's not exchange notes..."
"It's not okay to compare our love for each other," I said.
"What are you scared about?" He questioned.
"Scared of you losing...
Me."

I read a lot of poems today,
on love, hate and everything in between.
From poets of different eras
or by those who had nothing much to say.
But as I read more and more
I had a feeling to write one too,
So I picked up my pen,
and decided to pour my bottled up feelings.
But what was I going to write about?
My head was blank as I thought,
'Nothing but everything' then proclaimed my inner stout.
But the words didn't come easy, I reckon.
Eyes fixated,
my grip as firm as before.
my head exploding with too many voices.
But I had my answer,
to why they write in rhyme,
or believe even a prose can be a song,
because every time I read poetry,
I saw art.
It sure broke my walls,
but it hung forever, onto my heart.

The pace of my fan.
The contours of my curtain.
The cracks on the side wall.
The tree that casts different shadows on my floor.
That creaking sound of my bed.
The smell of my bed sheets.
The reflection of the clock in my mirror.
The chip in my window’s glass pane.
The ray of the sun that peeks through it.
The rust on the edges of the doorknob.
The dust that’s collected on the suitcases.
The colours of the changing sky.
The still water in my glass.
The drop of tear that rolls down my cheek.
Are some things I know too well.
Are the only things that give me company.