Mocking that chandelier up in the sky.
He was also hanging lonely like me—
Knowing that,
We gave each other high five!

Disgusting the concept of love and longings.
We both were losers, half trained players
Who now live in disguise.

Perched on a tree like birds do—
I was sitting near that pond.
Being the best critics for every dove couple.
In that cafe, they were sharing their feelings all along.

Looking at those fishes,
Before starting my rantings that I learnt by heart.
A fish yelled at me, hey! You idiot, What's wrong?
Surprised and confused—
I lost my expressions
I lost my fuse
Whether I felt disgust or in awe?
What was that outlaw?

Then she asked, "Are love poems meant to be hidden?
Then why are they supposed to be written?.
A sudden thought popped up in her mind.
Why do you hide your thoughts from me?
There is a fault in your design

Maybe it is just you, not them
Who lives in his own false notion.
You are a victim of your own dreams.
You're totally out of proportion.

Love is a game of divinity,
Just out of brevity.
Let me define— it is a game of giving it all.
Not to receive.
It is not a post to resign.
It is not a post to resign."

I meet beings with twirled tails.
One with fox-like eyes,
Another wiggling his child-like tail.

Without a language—
They conversed with me heart to heart.
I met beings who were really smart.
Strangely, I understand everything,
While they only used the word 'bark'.

Happy and spiritual,
They are closer to God
Without performing any pompous rituals.

They hide themselves under the canopy of a greenish light.
They look different but don't judge—
Not measuring and fixing each other's right.

Unlike humans—the man of science,
Who spend years to create languages,
Still can't express their love or their pain.
How do they do it?
Gasping your temperament,
They read between the lines!

These four-legged, chirping beings,
Waggling their googly eyes.
Wearing an identity collar—
A free breed, indeed.
Joyous always,
Non-believers of caste and creed.

They live life carefree—with or without shelter.
I know it now,
Why people name their dog—Dr. Watson or Walter.

Princess consuela banana hammock
The winner of X factor.
Beware she is a walking nuclear reactor.
Hitting that door,
"knock Knock".
She storms in, blissful havoc
With a handful of colourful rocks

You will hear her whispers,
Like a giggle of the ghost casper.
She is passionate and always in action
Unpredictable are her reactions

She sings with jasmine's sweetness
A bee's profound weakness.
She walks like ocean's waves
In front of her, intelligence of the world
Looks stupid and naive.

She mentors the universe—
With her art and verses.
A believer of Friends jingle.
After watching her these stars start to twinkle.

A pond keeper - an artisan of rocks.
Princess consuela banana hammock.

Once someone wise said,
"Your real dreams won't let you sleep."
And in my dreams I see you —
and then I can't sleep.

Does it mean? — are you for real?
Is my love really sacred?
Am I your Arthur?
Are you my Margret?
Or is it just a fancy fable of 5th grade?

Giggles, snuggles — a child's dream in a bubble.
And your frolic nag — a game of tic tac.
And me? I don't know how to react.

I told your name to my mother.
If you say, should I act further?

Why these heavy rains always take your side?
Whether I am drenched in rain or love.
Did you see that symbol?
Yes! The white dove.

Be my confidant, be my life.
Let's take this step forward —
not for the sake of us, but just be a part of something nice.

Let's surprise this world, by living this moment.
A rendition, a reprise.

I have a news to share —
I know it's not about us.
But it is the one for which we both still prayed.
Languages different —
But similar meaning it depicts.

It happened — unexpected,
Just like a musing gimmick.
I saw a portrait of you holding a first-cry —
You held it softly,
In a way — gracious and mature.
I am at cloud nine — I won't lie.

Togetherness — are both craving for it?
Are we both on the same page?

I will long for you —
No matter the age.

Like me, would you also like to free your heart —
Not keep it in a cage —
Or will you still hold that rage?

I'm still trying to gauge feelings of you,
Unable to determine the stage —
Is there any change of your heart?
It's breaking me, tearing me apart.

Alone, here I stand —
Waiting for your answer.
Waiting for the day we meet.

Tuning the forks.
Taping up the notes.
Strumming the rhythm,
Playing the tune of an unknown melody—
All night long,
A simple song.

Raising the pitch in harmony— a humming voice.
Using chords to stay away from my own mental noise.
Ravishing words, heart-wrenching lyrics,
Soothing rhyme.
Not just about the worldly vine, but it is something divine.

A looping symphony that
Binds strangers’ hearts,
Maybe by verses in the middle or the prelude—the start.

It unifies both the weary and the strong,
Something like patriotism—
Everyone feels the same for a song.

Love, quotes, and fables,
Passing through all ears.
Language, art, or magic—
Call it what you will.

Whenever I play my six strings,
I sway, lost in time,
I sway, forever.
passing  through all ears.
Language, art or magic you call it what so ever.
Whenever I play my six strings-
I sway, lost in time
I sway, forever.

The pain,
the unravelled truth.
Avenged vermillion stayed awake
amid the peace-calling warcry.

Lost lives, lost souls.
Ashes burnt the happiness.
In coffins, they buried the dreams.
Smoke smells grave —
shelters piercing borders.
Stones pelting people,
an action naive.

We all have witnessed this immersive rain.
Do they always tell a story of disdain?
The fierceness and sadness intertwined —
an outcry of our testing time.

A soul for a soul.
The theme of warrior's vengeance.
A cyclic psychology.
A provoked retribution.

Perhaps something is above humanity.
Something is above divinity.
In brevity —
we forget the art of living.

“We stand as one.”
A phrase engraved on the holy ceiling.
But the truth is —
to us, it has no meaning.

A candle to spread light
A kitty to cuddle waving off the trouble.
A frame with my favourite pet
Some room for a  scented flower ***.
Little small but a brighter space.
A drawer full of dreams
A diary full of manifestations
Adventures in your eyes.
A life to discover beyond reservations.
How wonderful it is
Indeed, there I stand amazed .
Like a excited lad, jumping up
I am what just a brat.
Would I say it amiable?
Will there a room for me at your table ?
Will there a room for us at the table ?

I wrote 199 poems just about you.
A discounted price tag—
People watched our movie,
With a ticket saying 1 by 2.
A motion picture of happiness tinged with rue.
Struggle, tears, excitement, and adventures new.
I wrote 199 poems just about you.

I wrote my dreams about you,
Adding mountains, valleys,
Who witness with me—my fleetings true.
All my poems just say about...
You, you, and you.

Yippee!
I wrote 199 poems just about you.

They wrote your love poems
On the walls of Taj.
A monument,  once reigned by love raj.
A reverie of my own dream.
Did you notice that natural spotlight on our dancing queen?
The grooves, the moves.
Those twisted gestures.
For a bit longer, for this dream—
Longer I snooze.

This time the picture was not vague.
My eyes seized your face.
Impressed and perplexed—
My overwhelmed emotions stirred my reflex.
Unknowingly I moved my hand towards you
Interrupting the rhythm, the flow.
Just to touch you.

Like bees attract to flowers
You mesmerized my soul—
Do we dance like lovers do?
Would it be true?—
Was it not a dream?—
Was it just me and you?

"Darkness of night had borne new life upon its *****."
A rise anew—
Sitting on a waiting bench.
In front of that gateway, I found the providence of you.

Imagining your image, I still do.
Even if it makes a monkey out of me.
I tried a lowkey job of forgetting you,
Still, I remember you—
I still do.

How to embrace my grievances—
I have no idea about—
Writing good words about you, I still do.

You said books, moon, freedom, and stars
Would bring you back those happy hours.
Yes! They will. They are!
But I still remember you.
I am endlessly drawn-out,
Yet I still remember you.
Looking at my healed scar,
I still remember... you.

I was thinking about this
So far so long.
We have seen choices – our whole lifelong.
Except the fact of religion and birth,
God has given power to us to live in a mirth.
On this heavenly earth — I met you not by choice,
but by fate.
And now, I choose my feelings, subtle and straight.
That like sunshine cannot brim without a sun,
like air cannot caress your skin without a breeze,
I can't be me without you.
Maybe this choice is a mistake;
perhaps there won't be a retake.
However — this overflown cup of longings
aches me and pushes my fingers to write and slide —
this note.
A note that you will never see.
A note that you might hate.
A note — symbol of us being apart; if not together.
I am lost, but present in this world,
with my story whirled up and around — yet unheard.

I asked a golden leaf — a leaf old —
"How did you get this colour?"
Sarcastic leaf said,
"The same way you get your hair grey.
I am also stuck on this Earth like you,
Living a life — bittersweet."

Taking essence of that sarcastic tone,
I murmured to myself,
"Ami, bro!! Better, let's run away.
Let's take a leave."

The moment I put my step away,
Leaf said in a sly manner, "Hey, stay!
If you want to hear my story,
Sit near me on that boulder."
I sat over that stone, shrugging my shoulder.
And he started his story with that ancient line —
"Once upon a time!"
Once upon a time, there was a guy with a book with cover of colour — wine.
With this sentence, I got a frown on my crown.
I interrupted him in between and said, "I found resemblance with that described being."
"It's you," said the leaf.
In a disgusted tone now I said, "Thank you for the brief."
The leaf replied with a grin smile, "I know why you are wasting me-time.
You are waiting, longing for someone from a long time.
I don't know but why?
Oh! That cupid's design.
Adding to this further note."
He blessed that I will meet that someone soon.
I can have his note.
In this conversation, this is the first time we both smiled.
Since then, I visit that leaf and we repeat this nonsense garbage
All the time.

I longed within lines of poetry,
Like leaves and twigs long—
For the weather to be.
Singing songs of their beloved tree,
I found a festival, where kids were dancing on the roadside.
Syncing steps with the typical rhythm,
On a mundane day—bullseye.
I won't rhyme it longer.
For now, words aren't able to bear my feelings,
The ones which are growing stronger.
Captivating my mind a bit longer—
Music, dance, and throwing those colours up so high.
Giving happy hues back to the sky.
This affection taught me—
How poetry makes words—
Which never die.

I saw Time standing at the corner of my room.
He was watching me—writing this poem,
Witnessing my mistakes and metaphors allure to doom.
He exactly knew what I was going to write:
The final act, the audience's reaction, and all things accompanying this sect.
Still, like a silent teacher, he didn’t react.
I had to address my fault with not-so-wholesome tact.

It acted like a father, watching my every move.
It always knew when I would be awake, and when I would snooze.
Even when things harmed me, it let me choose;
He didn’t tell me the answers to my quest—
Whether it was about my growth, journey, or a silly love test.

I bow my head to my teacher—this testing Time.
Gratitude to all which was phased by Time.

You are my reverie,
The unwithered voice of your heart
That calls me—your blooming love.
I am a longed spirit with apologies
For a reticent start.

You are the only one in the billion.
Don’t feel alone—
You are a north star,
A devotion of the affectionate moon.
I hope that I did tell you my words a little soon.

Even if this world perceives me as a clown,
Still, in your love, I am ready to drown.

Standing still with your shadow by my side,
I promise to keep my word.
Even if, by this world’s unruly stride,
I may come back and forth,
Like the tides returning to the seashore—
A conventional but uncontrollable sight.

I won’t fade away.
I, too, don’t want to be a memory.
I yearn to be with you
Till the seizure of my lifeline,
And till the end of time.


Till the seizure of my lifeline
And till the end of time

Why does my soul feel dead,
Still away from God?
The passion I had is gone and lost.
Amid all happy signs, why do I still feel this emptiness?

Without a picture of you, my songs have lost their melody.
Without you, even success feels like tragedy.
The brimming sunrays don't relay warmth.
Subtle heat is burning—not the skin, but something within.

Hollowness is the farewell gift you left.

I am just blessed with some stories  
Some are true but felt like imagination.  
Some are imagination but they feel like the truth  
An unusual journey; An unusual troop  
Cold breezes caressing your face.  
But I feel warmth from your words  
That reaches me after echoing in the wood.  

This palm tree has put his foot down.  
Determined to find you—  
Fighting that stormy cloud.  
Sun waits for the rise—  
Let us say about the real love.  
Even if it is not advised by the wise.  

Far and beyond—  
Yes, the poet's favorite phrase...  
Did I miss that horizon.  
Where life was not to chase.  

I am not a cheat, presumed by a lie..  
Just a traveller with a tear ached eye.  
Heavy heart, slow start..  
But still bowing to this journey.  
Like that angel of morning star.  
Hmm. The angel of morning star.

Sometimes my heart writes.
And yes, sometimes it's my brain.
They both write on a paper—creased and plain.
I have no control
Over the logic I unknowingly challenge,
Or the fleetings that leave me emotionally stained.
Conflicts and peace—
Both try to corner each other
In an effort to weave a lovely piece.

Betting chances—
Will it be might over disdain,
Or will create something so lame,
I'll only die with shame.
My nerves are paining in this wistful fight.
They both pen what they feel is right.
Hands, erasing and rewriting verses all the time.
Will I ever be able to complete this endless rhyme?
Stop scuffling with my thoughts—
Just for one single time.

She gives the best vibes
After all, she is queen of the beehive.
The fierce leader of the clan.
Her idealism on unity—
I am a big fan.

Imaginative and creative,
Engineers and architects learn from her narrative.
Though small it looks, the hive is home to many.
Built out of wax—
It didn’t cost them a penny.

Just some smiling flowers—
Some pollen, some grains.
A house protected by pointed stingers.
Don’t think them tiny or frail.

Buzzing and fussing—
No grudge, no fudging.
I adore bees and their hives.
Their Honeywell life—
Symbol of harmony,
Idol of strength.

Away from this world apart,
With sweetness in their heart.

My hands stained with ink.
While I was wondering about the world,
Without a wink.

To cater and build a bridge
From my mind to that wisdom ridge,
To find the unfound.

Away and mystical —
A fact astound.
Similar like in the movies,
The folklore and those daunting stories for newbies.

Fables of magic and justice.
Some lines about flowers being combustive.
Have you heard a story of an electrifying
Thunderbird?...

Dreamy stains of blue took me to an unknown land —
Land without pain, untouched by disdain.
A place as stated in our religious sect.
A place from where pyramids and temples found their way to *****.

Far from this fence and away from this trap —
A world of worlds where universe is not full,
But just a piece — an abstract.

Little I gain, little I lose,
Balancing the act for an unknown cause.
I just can't choose.
Shooting trouble with a defunct gun,
Dreams shattered, all shunned.

All cables crisscrossed,
Now I have a heart to breathe and lungs to pump,
Food to think about,
Thoughts I churn.

Carrying a featherless weight
On muscles heavy—
A situation so confusing.
Can I defer my worry?
Wait! What was the story?

Only a face can set things right.
I’d fight any day to embrace that sight.
What's wrong and what's right?
Flip a coin or map a device?
An uncertain, unclear path.
A step too soon, or a hesitant heart.

You speak of languages,
but the heart knows only one.
Believe me—if I say it in mine,
you will feel it in yours.
For you are not someone who’s one in a million,
you are the one who’s one in a lifetime.

I wish I could be the same for you.
Maybe I could have lived in your palm—
like one of the useless lines near your lifeline.
These hiccups I get while writing about you—
I hope they are true signs of missing you.

What more should I say?
Words are slacking out of my mind—
every time, every verse, every rhyme.
I confess the same old crime.
The church, the chapel, and the altar—
they only hear the prayers;
they never imprison me or ask me to serve my time.

Unforgiven, forbidden love—
I am only left with your memories,
like soot that flows through the coalmine.

If you are afraid to fall for me.
for the reasons and logic
Tragic, it would be.
Because science never explained it more than a hormone release-
But it's beyond that reality.

If you are afraid to fall for me.
Cause there could be disagreement and fights
Didn't they become lovely memories.
After a moonlight dinner—A lover reverie.

PS. Holding hands is forever

If you are afraid to fall for me.
You should have stopped me falling for you.
Why did you show your love to me?
Is that thing utmost practical?


Give me some reliance, I too have a part to play.
We fall together—
Promise, but we won't fall down.
I want to give you my love crown.
Don't be afraid, in this sea of affection.
It is better to swim—
But it is better to drown.


You say love is sham, a scheme.
Maybe! You are true— you are right.
For I bet myself on the table and lost.
Nevertheless, I lost rightfully -
In the love that I have and for the love you have for me

With regards and this poor heart-
I sign off this verse.
Just want you to know
Lover boy still trusts you as his universe.

You feel the world;
Did you ever feel?
The collusion; My heart's reverb.
Here I am standing on this bridge
Of this renowned suburb.

In this darkness,
I am hovering under this dim light.
You are named as the daughter of the Dew.
Or crowned a  princess of rain instead—
And I?
No meaning, Just a name —
Poorest among all - the peasant face
As in the stories — the gloomy chase.

Walking on this wooden ridge,
Waiting for that angelic smile,
Waiting for that heavenly face.

How to be with you?
Can I be among those few
Yes, the ones
Who always get a chance to meet you.

I know now, why those poets laughed at me.
And called me as wise among the fools
I adore you but I hate this one sided love
A Spiteful tool.

A call from my couch.

Another day to my 9 to 5.
I took a break to rest my back for a while.
My never-ringing phone buzzed today for the first time.
I took a glance—a reckless one.
It was a call from my couch.
Yes, the one who dreams with me about you.
Yes, the one who believes that every dream of you is a sign—divine.

I picked up the call and said, "Hi."
It replied, "Hello, how's life?"
"Hmm," I said, "How can you talk?"
"Am I dreaming? It was a total shock."

He asked me, "Are you dreaming about her all alone?
Please answer on the phone.
Did you find your time with her?
Why were you up all night?

Will you write your stories without spilling your ink on me—
The things about us and the glory—
While slumber takes you away, and now you can't even blink?

Will she—the divine, the feather, the dance, the shine?
I am curious how you will ends this rhyme.
Without me, without her.
Your heart signaled me before—are you fine?
Your sleep still waits on you.
Hope someday this dream finds you."

What is pain?
To abstain or to retain.
A feeling to let out, or to restrain.
A fruit, or a nuisance — a disdain.
Nurturer of strength, or destroyer of sanity.
Driver, or the conductor of vanity.
The propeller of wounds and scars.
The beginning, or the end, of my emotional or my physical wrath.
What is pain?
A metaphysical being who lives in my reality;
who dwells in my dreams.

What Are Photos to Poetry?

I asked this question to myself many a time.
Is it me, or do all photos hum a rhyme—
Choirs of imagery singing together,
Emotions now, all around me, they start to gather.

Laughter chattering with tears and amuse,
Anger and logic—arguing.
I am out, but not confused.

Shoulders on shoulders,
A hand in hand.
I am watching hilarious metaphors,
A settling sun, and a captured angelic moonrise.

Sitting on a bench by the railway ridge,
Drenched by raindrops.
After this long flicker on my glowing screen,
Holding my shop of dream,
I laid my book on that bench—
Reveled in,
watching a paper writing through my hand.

Would this be the end?
Where you leave me astray, with feelings of you—
Engraved on my tombstone.

I have been with you—
Strange it is, but alone.
I’m now in the habit of hearing your songs
With only one plug.
The other hums the tune,
Remembering you on my other side,
Where your hand once held my arm—
Tightly.

I know these rhymes—
These ambivalent notes I write—
They are not new.
Some speak in gestures,
Some speak in verbs.
Sitting on this bench near the lake,
I feel on my toe a different tide—
A different ebb

I see every passerby’s face—
Familiar with you…
Or, to say it better, like a maniac does,
I see only you.
Only you.

How strange it is—
A seeker never gets a glimpse of the swan.
But a reckless peasant sees them everywhere.

Once you stop moving aggressively and take cautious, calm steps,
You’ll begin to see their glimpses all around.

The question is:
How can a seeker turn himself back into a peasant?
Has love turned him into something else?

How strange it is—
In life, we keep running to achieve; to gain; to find; or to discover
Running in and Running out—
Only to lose our souls and the time — it runs out.
A swan unaware—
There was a seeker once who kept her as a reverie
To the grave.
Strange again yet a dearly held reverie.

I imagine you embracing
That sunlight which was dying to get in
From your room's window—
It became brighter after you removed the curtains.

I envy and I adore—
The bookmark when you hold it in your hands
As you place it back in among the pages of your stories.

I imagine—
That coffee would taste —so blessed.
As it moved very courteously through your throat.

Those petals, those flowers
That you keep twirling between your fingers.
Look more gracious than before—

Are you that lyrical ballad?
Which my fingers long to write.
But my lips tremble to whisper.

What should I write more?—
To tell you
What my heart wants to tell?
Suddenly my heart has made my life like a theatre
And I am an actor, a loner
Dancing to your tunes

Unable to wake up from this dream
Yes, this is my dream —of you
By you; for you.
My dream is you

Frayed dews on trees,
Different hues in the sky.
O Divine,
I kneel before you—
And only you,
Till the end of my breathing rhyme.

With this reflection on the past
To seek the future,
Admiring both—
Dullness and contrast.

From tormenting whirlwinds
To silent rains that shower
Music and fragrances—
I return to my path,
Walking alone, but I am with you.
Sensing the incense of these flowers,
Bloomed by the wise dews.
I stayed in memory for hours.

As guided by the time,
Written on rocks, papers, and stones—
The metaphors, riddles, ballads, and lyrics of you,
Or any other yet efficient rhyme.

Ghazals with rhythm
Or a pictured haiku—
Life is a poem indeed.
Explaining the context,
Lost among mysteries,
I bestow myself
To the greatest writer—
Creator of all.

In your servitude, I am
A knight; a student; a slave.
Whatsoever I am,
In you, with gratitude,
I find my peace

Perhaps! I keep falling for you...
I keep breaking my heart for you..
For my feelings are boundless—
Perhaps! This love is designed for a loop
I will keep building the castles of dreams
And you will keep bursting them with fierce gleam

Perhaps!  I am not the Romeo that you want
But you are the Juliet that I need.
These breaking lines—
Don't follow a pattern of repeat.
Perhaps! Your touch was just a touch.
But my nerves, my sense felt them too much.
Beyond the definition of touch.

My fear is not to die alone
That is certain,
But is to live in the crowd
Where I cannot call anybody my home.
Perhaps! Not to call is destiny.
Maybe I am that unlucky among many.

Rain... that pours...
Weaving stories that allure,
Scented scenes come down to earth—
Delivering memories to your door.

Why am I still in mid-air?
Do you think it is fair?
For my flair of love—
Is intense and red.
Holding my unbearable thoughts
Up in my head...
If you feel the same,
Then knock me out.
I will squeal like a penguin—
Declamation is out.

Jokes, yes, those lame ones—
I will say all over again
Just to make you smile.
I will take that blame.
Rain, O gloomy rain,
Thanks for pouring yourself out.
I will now meet you in my dreams—
Over and out!