My skin bleeds in anguish,
I do not understand my eyes.
My lips are charred,
My legs are aching.
Perhaps because for a long time they have been carrying the burdens of beauty.
I feel ugly to my core,
It's a truth I have accepted.
I see pretty girls in glamorous fashion,
I look down at my worn shoes and jacket.
I don't like my body.
Perhaps we can exchange our mortal trappings.
Then I could be the beauty with a brain,
And I won't have to compensate
For the ugliness running in my blood veins.
My hands are trembling,
I dislike my ****** structure .
Nobody could love my body, they could perhaps love my soul.
It's a compensation that I always pay.
For If I am ugly and mean,
I think I will be a bigger loser.
Somewhere I have to win.
Pride is a false illusion that I feel for my medals and trophies.
Nothing matters because
My body cannot be loved in this lifetime.

I am definitely no poet but I like to write and I wish I could capture in my poetry
(if it can be considered poetry),
the melancholy of changing seasons
and empty sidewalks and long secret
fleeting glances.
Longing and Desire burning in the flames of youthful passion.
Or true love if that exists, I am sure it does.
The afternoon silence or
the echoing laughter on a windy day,
my love for my family, the radiant smiles of my friends.
The way sunlight decorates the ocean
waves in summer, disappears in the
monsoon,
Only to return back with shades of golden
in autumn and peeking desperately,
Trying to warm the frozen earth in desolate winter.
The utter feeling of loneliness that
connects each and every one of us,
The emotional weight of saying a goodbye
to the last year at new year's,
My childlike sense of adventure and
wonder,
Or my dread when it comes to talking
about death.
But mostly and desperately I sincerely
hope that my poetry
(that on some days I am not even sure can
be considered poetry),
captures the essence of loving and living,
A life well lived and loved that would be
called mine.

I wonder why melancholy
paints my soul a deep red
when midnight strikes,
And the colors on the clock change.
The firecrackers make noise,
And the world transitions
From one year to the next.
I wonder why nostalgia engulfs
the chaos of my winds
When time passes away slowly
On New Year's Eve.
I wonder how I could ever
Say gracias
To all those people who
Taught me, hugged me and
gave me the strength to live and love,
For my family and friends I am grateful.
I wonder why melancholy
paints my soul a deep red
When midnight strikes.
In this ever-present grief of how
Time passes away so quickly,
I reside, I reside.
I wonder why red fades
And green blossoms.
It is the way of life.

I asked a flute player
if he ever missed the melancholy of his tunes,
the way they twist and travel in the afternoon silence.
When he sleeps at night all lonely under a big sky,
the bag of flutes by his side.
He looks like the Almighty Krishna if Krishna was ever lonely,
for he spends too many restless nights.
He said that the grief of loving is what we carry home,
the grief of knowing that death takes away all.
The melancholy of life that we all feel under our layers,
the loneliness twisting and paining our restless hearts like the tune he plays every afternoon.
The tune reminds me of death and life
and my loved ones still alive.
I hope this grief of knowing
too much does not drive me to insanity.
I wish someone could come and listen to my heart.

The universe oscillates between life and death,
Hanging in the equilibrium.
Two forces beyond infinity
Will always be creation and destruction.
Memories are dying,
Moments are being lived for the first time.
Galaxies are exploding into multicolours.
Stars are fading into oblivion,
their glow dimming.
Nebulae are rejuvenating,
painting galaxies upon galaxies.
The sun, ever present
is burning its own energy.
The edges of time
are constantly unfurling.
Our body's remains are transforming
into mud and soil.
A tree grows, its branches are withering.
Vines are creeping on tree bark,
The butterfly is taking its first flight.
A bird is flying for the last time.
Somewhere, there's a beep emanating from a hospital machine.
The line goes flat,
The loved ones are crying
Tears of grief.
In the same building,
A new born's life is being celebrated,
The loved ones are crying tears of joy.
In the blink of an eye,
Waves crash
and waves recede.
In the blink of an eye,
The circle of life is being completed.
In the same second,
Humanity has lived a thousand lifetimes.
In the same second,
Humanity has died a thousand lifetimes.
For us, a lifetime passes.
For the universe,
It's a small oscillation.
An ode to the infinite
balance between
lives and deaths,
Creation and Destruction.
The dances of life and death
collide painting countless
cycles of life.
I take a moment as I pay
my gratitude to the universe
for including my circle of life
in its vast canvas.

I am just an image,
Like a flickering candle waiting to die
Like a glimpse of the sun on cloudy days
Like dead roses on my mother's grave
Like dried plants in the flower vase
Like the reflection in my lover's gaze.
I am just an image,
Like summer evenings spent on your porch
Like the first kiss that never happened
Like the scent of your perfume
Like the first time I saw you
Like one sided love and hopeless dreams
Like days that never end and nights that end too fast
Like thoughts that scare me
Like withered and dried sunflowers on my grave
Like my coffin's reflection in my mother's gaze
Like the life I wanted.
But at the end of the day
I am nothing at all.
I am just a  flickering candle waiting to die,
Just an image.
But all these memories that make
Me me are like fleeting winds
That pass away too quickly,
Sometimes too short for my liking.
Without all these moments, I am nothing
But just an image
In someone's eyes.

There was a princess
lost in and dazed by springtime sweetness.
Picture perfect gowns and rolling meadows,
In her Kingdom
Spring went on and forever.
People wished they lived at such a place,
evergreen flowers and the youth of nature.
Wished they could experience it all.
But the princess was locked inside her palace,
woe the young woman couldn't touch the flowers.
She sat there in her gloomy chamber,
looking outside to the greenest grass.
She was sad and numb but she danced in her room,
wore spring gowns for there was spring at her heart.
She breathed in spring air from within the cold walls,
An ever longing desire in her eyes to touch the spring flowers.
Little does she know for she is spring Herself,
So she touches her heart.