चलो आज उन वीर शहीदों के नाम एक पयाम करते है,
जो हो गए कुर्बान हमारे लिए उन्हें दिल से सलाम करते है,
कैसे चुकाएंगे हम कर्ज़ उन वीर जवानों का ,
जो ख़ुद सीने पर गोलियां खाकर इस वतन का नाम करते है,

लफ्ज़ छोटे पड़ जाते उनकी बहादुरी के बखान के लिए,
न धर्म न जाति होती उनकी, जीते है सिर्फ वतन के मान के लिए,
जो कड़ी धूप हो या हो सियाचिन की कड़कड़ाती ठंडी
सीना तान रहते हमेशा तैयार सिर्फ हमारी जान के लिए,

हम कभी हिन्दू तो कभी मुसलमान  करते है,
जाति धर्म के नाम पर झगड़े सुबह-शाम  करते है,
चलो आज मिटा दो इस भेदभाव को ताउम्र के लिए,
पकड़ कर हाथ एक दूसरे का इस तिरंगे का नाम करते हैं....

Flames.
Flames result in something burning into ashes.
The stronger ones, that resist, are not saved from the effects either.
                                                                ­                             They blacken.

And when a fire and passion as strong as ours burns out, one of us is going to be reduced to ashes and the other one is going to carry the weight of the darkest heart around.

I strive to keep us ablaze because somewhere I know that the pain of being reduced to nothingness is much lesser than carrying around a broken piece of what once was.

                                                           ­                     Burnt from all sides.

And I know that I'm the one who's going to resist.
                                                         ­                                         Oh, I fear.

sheen spreads from
light blue paranoia—a rainbow,
tough magical, slippery, and krilled

to enter all but my mouth would seem ungrateful

rain, lighthouse, big money,
and the shade of fish approaching

the rope
now shredded, wet braids
to loosen and snap swatched opal
peeping, peering, ripping larger
with the rifted water

and so goes slicing red

The Art of Stealing Hearts-
A curse of the purest kind.
I mistook myself for the divine.
Now I lay on the corpses of who my suitors once were,
as part of the history as every single one of them.
I lay still atop,
with a knife slit through my chest,
and a drop of regret in my eyes.
Little had I realised,
whilst I slaughtered your love like
every single one of theirs,
that your heart had mine in it.
And I carved it out with a lonesome bloodied knife,
And now I lay here still,
still.
The curse was probably never about stealing hearts,
It was maybe about letting mine be stolen with yours.
Every. Single. Time.