be the vines,
exist slowly. cautiously.

crawl up, looking for any
footholds to expand your reach.

exist violently.
tear down the bricks of
the building you conquered

and above all else—

rise to the top of what you hate the most.

my life is just a
countdown to sobriety—
and i’m feeling great.

Almost like a conversation,
trees come into leaf.
Last year gone, time to move on.
Time to tumble soft flower explosions
into imperatives driven by the wind
that approximates a song.
Let light fall in thick drops,
entering through perfumed windows
and silken doors, fragrant with love.
Let there be a daily siesta of green
solitudes, a sigh light as a feather,
stillness reovered. Let this season’s
world become a dream, a ceaseless
burgeoning of seraphic joy,
an elevation of oneness .

Sweet, loud frog, harsh voice rising
like a climbing vine in a green world
of ponds and leaves thin as filaments.
The sad frog has never acquired
grace or flight, yet multiplies
geography of night.

You may want to be a fish
or a bird, yet there is a steady
wholeness about you, a settled
resignation of lowness –
no particular ambition.

You are a being both firm
and subtle ; with your webbed
feet you cling solidly to the
wet earth. With your perfect
camouflage, you enhance
the beauty of your verdant
surroundings.

Emperor of the archipelago
of lily pads, you astound
observers with your acrobatic
leaps. Nocturnal creature, you
are a visual enigma.

So, hold your head high
and with your rough harmony,
sing me a star-lit serenade.

I'm like an open book
And yet I feel like I'm shrouded in secrets
Unsaid words...unshared feelings..unexpressed emotions
I'm a beautiful mess...
Chaos and clarity both co-exist in me so harmoniously
Conviction and doubts...they both are attracted to me
Love and hatred...I'm an equal receiver of both
I say so much
And yet I feel like I've never really said anything
I think too much
And at times my mind just feels like a blank vacant space..
...unable to process anything
I can't quite define myself..
...i keep asking myself strange questions...
...who am I?
...what am I?
...do I have any purpose and if so then what is it?
My days are mostly spent in sadness and regrets  
And yet I find joy when I'm able to pen down this sadness
Sure..i cry my soul out when I write about the pain and regrets
But just being able to write about it gives me a different kinda' high
I guess it makes me feel relieved in some ways..
...a strange sense of comfort about being able to write what troubles me

The soul will be found by a heart that is filled with peace.