Why do we put poison in our minds?
The way we cling to false hope,
The way we watch the TV until we go blind.
Maybe we want to be blind to all that
happens in the world.
Maybe we want to turn blind to our own
sorrow,
So that we don't drown all together.
Why do we put poison in our bodies?
The way we drink until three a.m.,
The way our fingertips burn as we hold the
cigarette that will eventually burn our
bodies, burn our souls.
The clouds of smoke covering our guilt.
Why do we do anything wrong when we
know what we are doing is wrong?
Has the world not been cruel enough that
we inflict pain upon ourselves?
It is an escape, everything really.
Long nights where a cigarette and a glass
of whiskey becomes our lifeline.
Days when we stare off into space.
Lost in a universe we create in our minds,
Or even worse, when we put on that
obnoxious fake smile.
Loneliness eats away our souls, almost
drags us to hell.
Maybe it isn't an escape rather the last trial
that we all suffer together as we share this
big secret and secretly waste away our
lives in moments of solitude.
Moments of solitude we all need,
Not to feel everything but to forget that we
exist and so does our pain, grief, greed,
hatred, hunger, anger and ambition.
Why do we feel the need to die alone?
Why can't we just be?
Everyday I undergo my trial and enjoy the
last supper alone before I sleep,
Hoping and waiting for life.
Because all I ever do is escape.

Fog and mist rising,
And then disappearing behind the peaks.
Fog and mist rising
From the lake as if
The water itself is burning beneath its lurky surface.
Fog and mist rising and dissolving into the meadows,
Painting the grassland in grey and white.
Fog and mist rising and nestling in the deodars,
Reflecting the icy surface of the water in its vapour.
Fog and mist rises higher and higher than the mountain peaks as if teasing the ***** of the hill.
Fog and mist rising and tainting the hillside until nothing is visible,
Not even the roads in haunted small towns.
Fog and mist rising from nowhere and covering the hills
In blue and grey and white.
Fog and mist rising like an old curse after the rainfall dances.
Fog and mist rising and then disappearing
behind the peaks,
Where there is only the open sky.

I have been to the depths of madness,
Yet I haven't lost my sanity.
I cling onto it like a mother
clings to her child's dead body.
I have seen my worst selves resurrect and being crucified
Under the weight of all my sins.
Yet, I have never willingly committed a crime.
Like the wooden dock at a port that holds all ships
from sinking to the wrath of the ocean currents,
I have harboured my evil
deep within me
With great power and diligence.
It's a quiet storm raging inside me.
My insanity threatens to spill out
to the edges of my constraints,
blurring the sight of blood on my hands.
For a tiny moment, my smile changed
giving way to something sinister lurking
in my soul.
And then it was gone like a fleeting wind
moving swiftly to a distant land.
But the wind has seen my self inflicted wounds,
She whispers the truth, she knows me truly that
I am a bigger omen than the crows and the raven.
Two tides clash fighting for control.
Day and night juxtaposed in a singular skin.
All hell is beginning to break loose.
The more I try to mend myself,
the harder the waves rock my ship.
The more I try to breathe,
the more the air begins to drown me.
In order to silence my cries,
it pushes me to a gentle hush.
Silence has never been this loud.
My insanity has never been this dangerous.

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.