Close your eyes I've got a surprise
a world without lies where your mind
no longer denies the tears you need to cry
for the pain as it's pried from your heart
and you can start to live and discard
all the blame releasing your shame
stop playing the game of guilt
just by making a decision
to stop with the hate of yourself
and rebuild within a love that transcends
the divisions of race and religion
with party lines erased
replaced by togetherness
and the commonality of death we share
as you begin to care again
not to save the world but humanity upon it
we're merely a blink in the eye of time under the sun
so if you accept yourself for who you are
then your life has finally begun

Words you know that can mend your heart.
Words when whispered to your ears you know it would end in tears.

Someone to handle your mental ways.
But why look for someone who could?when you can't even handle your self anyway.

From the hundreds of claims from people who said they would, It's a shame they all couldn't.
Was it so hard to love me? or was it so hard to handle me?

Morning commences with the friendly clink of
cups, sitting beside the tea cosy-clad kettle,
Fresh, calming fragrance of warm tea nudging at
My just-awakened senses, a little unsettled,

My favorite ghazal colors the background,
The record though scratchy, its influence unfaded;
Abida Khanum mellowly croons, urging her lover
to not insist on leaving that day.

I smell, instinctively, the red rose he hands me,
The same rose had traced my skin in the dark
The missing petals testimony to its journey
Over troughs and crests, marks and landmarks.

What is so utterly, heartwarmingly romantic
about something as simple as him spreading
butter on bread, mixing sugar in chai,
what makes his 'routine', for me so endearing?

He watches me eat, breaks into a smile so wide,
'How do you enchant me, even with the mundane?'
he asks, same question amusing us both,
Same passion coursing through our veins.

The poetess inside me, happily chuckles,
Of being the one expressive, of solely giving away-
Are the days of the past, as breakfast in bed
Becomes our way of Give and Take

Is it too late
To try create

A poem
At this hour?

Extract the strange and unknown thing
That's burning in the fire

And then a voice echoes within
You'e won my friend, you've won

Through sitting down and pushing on
Right up until the end

Emotions stir
Something is born

Something of me
Is somehow
Free

I'll fry an egg
And make some toast

To celebrate
This short ditty

A call to arms.
Really.
Just a call to your arms.
Dear, I'm borrowing Darcy's words
I love you ardently.
So please. Embrace me.
I don't care if I'm ****** afterwards.

I need a vacation.

Maybe a trip to Italy.

I gotta revitalize.

Maybe, Pompeii.

I am feeling starved of my vim and vigor.
My words are lukewarm.

There is only one option:
rekindling my virility.

I could vivify myself vicariously:
the sensuality of the city's verve,
all the daily livings of people,
venerated in an intense blaze;
might make me vivacious again.

Input daily routine.
Output socially valued norms.

My vivid, vermillion passion
has been layered with ashes.

I am desperate for veracity.
Did my igneous, poetic life temper
to an obsidian verse?

The beat in my heart
has felt industrialized,
monotonous,
a steady assembly line of chaste gray;
a vexing variance of my vitals.
Revive me: my virtuosity
will ventilate me with
venereal voraciousness.

What is left to me,
a choice of perspective:
a plunge in to the devouring,
a dive in to the radiant;
both, a swim through a viscous sea of wildfire
in Mount Vesuvius.