I was exhausted of sitting in the car,
In traffic jams at noon.
Travelling a distance too far
In an attempt to reach soon.

Glad I was home when I expected,
I started telling my Mum about the day.
I continuously blabbered,
Not giving her any chance to say.

As I was done speaking,
She asked if I could come with her,
"Sorry, I can't", I  said after thinking,
Shopping isn't something that makes me feel better.

"It's the grocery to be bought", she said,
Hoping that I might budge ,
I denied again,
And so she struck a bargain:
"I was thinking we could have sweet buttermilk."
I heard without lifting my head,
and with a child-like grin, I began to trudge.

I can control my desires well,
But I am a foodie with a sweet tooth.
I'd be in heaven, I can surely tell,
If I have book, couch and food.

"Choose a shop before we are way past it,
It was fun today", she said, smiling.
Isn't this what we live for?
It is the time we spend, and not the lure.
I was unknowingly overcome with guilt,
And we reached home, while I was still thinking.

Sometimes, I have a strong urge to write;
One fleeting thought in my mind,
Eager to become a poem on paper.
At times, I am able to calm it down,
Save the thought for later;
But often comes the moment,
When the vessel is full,
Brimming with words,
Longing to ink the paper,
And become sentences.
I can feel the quiver of my heart
As I reach for the notebook.
The grip at the pen,
More confident and firm.
That's what happens to me,
When I sit down to write.
How about you?
**Do you feel it too?

You wrote 12 lines,
Which we spent several minutes on;
Interpreting.

You wicked, wicked woman.

Playing with words,
Simple words;
Arranging them
In an ordinary manner.

For us,
*Creating a labyrinth.

Forty seats,
Occupied by 40 different personalities.
The destination,
For now,
Is same.
Just passing the time:
Gazing out of the window,
Talking to a stranger,
Engrossed in mobile phones,
Taking a nap.
Or writing,
*Like me.

All credits for this poem go to my friend, Shuchita Mehta; who I hope now has confidence in her writing. :)

Every single day of my life,
Has been spent in silence.
This has become a routine for me.
A routine which I never wanted;
A routine where
Without speaking a word,
My loved ones are hurt;
A routine which makes me feel miserable.
Silence: *I hate you!
We both don't get along that well,
I hate you because you make yourself available,
Everytime.
I hate you because you comfort *ego;
I hate you because without you,
So many problems could be sorted;
I hate you because you depress me;
I hate you-
For you have compelled me to write about you,
**And not speak.

Life is not a garden of fragrant flowers,
Life is a chef's kitchen;
Some things get burnt,
Some are frozen,
In the end, it all tastes well.

Life is not a cycle ride down a smooth road,
Life is a bumpy journey uphill;
There are sharp, blind turns
Plus an upward *****,
But the view is magnificent.

Life is not a perfect picture captured by a DSLR,
Life is a photograph shot with a 1.3 megapixel camera;
With no editing allowed,
The sky looks blurred through it,
When actually it is clear.  

Life is not a cup of Starbucks coffee,
Life is a glass of Coke;
It is cold,
Addictive at times,
Mostly, fizzy and sparkling.

Life is not-
Seeing the glass half full.
Just appreciating as is;
*Simply, beautiful.