I don't know what it is—
This path I walk now.
Where it leads, I cannot tell.
Destiny is inevitable,
No matter how far it may be.

I stopped—
Forming opinions,
Passing decrees
On what I see.

For a toddler, sitting on her lap,
Yawning, snapping, and giggling,
Googling his unaware eyes all around,
Just seeking the attention of whoever surrounds him,
Taught me something different.

Sometimes, being oblivious to the world
Is a gift.
It is a bliss to be indifferent.

We all are stuck between reality and reverie.
That's why we take shelter
In art, fitness, and sometimes a brewery.

We all are stuck between right and wrong,
And miss listening to and doing what we really want.

We all are stuck between society and religion,
And that's what gives birth to a rebellion.

We all are stuck between stress and rest,
Thinking work is the only game—let’s detest.

Everybody has a different path.
We all are stuck between where to stop and where to start.

Life is like a marathon, not a race.
It's not important to rev it up,
Just maintain your peace,
Maintain your pace.

Forgive me for my thoughts,
For they were not kind.
Forgive me for my words,
For they were not true.
Forgive me for my actions,
For they hurt you, though I never meant to.

Forgive me for my dance,
For I learned it for you but never got to show.
Forgive me for my art,
For it was inspired by you when I should have let it go.
Forgive me for my music,
For its tune bound our hearts, yet it made you cry.
Forgive me for my heart,
For it beats only for you—day and night.

I write what feels right,
Still hiding—words are my disguise.
Poetry is just a form,
Like other arts, I con.

I con hearts,
I con songs,
I con beauty—
I con everything that comes along.

I am a writer—a stealer, a thief,
I write what the world chooses to snub.

I write to see that smile—
That embrace of warmth, soft yet wild.
A mere observer, I call it a game,
Bringing the cough up, even if others find it lame.

Why do I feel like an empty vessel,
Like a soul caged in a dark, vast castle?
I shouted. I cried.
Yet the only sound I heard was my own voice.
Did I come here by my own choice?

For forgiveness, I plead,
Even for the path I did not lead.
Yes, I made choices—some were not right,
But does that make me guilty, the bearer of this outcry?
Or is it something else, yet to be finalized?

Is this a green room for gladiators,
Only to be vandalized?
What should I do with this vessel,
Once filled with passion and hustle?
Now, it is just an empty jar.
Should I break it—
And rise above the bar?

I saw you painting—a canvas of chripping birds,
A face like yours—immersive, yet shy—
Holding warmth, an unspoken invitation,
Guiding through that arch.

And then, pointing at you...
And to share heartspace with another—
You see golden pillars—joining hands together.
Ah! It is not a souvenir,
An artificial gateway.
Let's pass through.

May you find something interesting altogether.
What could it be? you wonder.
Or how would it be? Is this the question that steals your thunder?

Just do it, let it out.
This deed would be there in your heaven's ledger account.
If you fail, if you stumble—that won't matter.
The gladness that you tried is all that matters.

Come, let's join hands together,
To go across and feel the weather.

Queen of Spades...
Queen of Hearts...
What should I say?
From where should I start?

Am I tired of writing stories of the heart?
For the heart brings a box filled with chaos—
A weight of dismay,
Ah! Some traces of illogical hope,
And some things... should I say?

Perplexed, he stands—
What should he carry, and what should he let go?
Don't bluff your cards—hey! Just show.

He wants to propose something to me, I suppose.
Maybe a proposal of care,
A proposal to share,
A proposal to collaborate,
A proposal—one that's fair.

Maybe he forgets—
Whenever one proposes,
The other may dispose.