I am not a poet.
I cannot dance to the lyrics of the ballad.
I cannot pen a haiku immersive—
I write longings of you,
a passionate cursive.
For I read it somewhere, "For in every universe, there is you for me."
And for me, you are the universe.

Bewitching like the Higanbana,
She rocks her hips around
Like the blossoms that sway
As the gush kisses them.
She chants her tune,
Inundating the scene with her melody,
Dragging me into the deepness
of tranquility and isolation.
She looks at me
With her hypnotic eyes,
Pulling me further
Towards her with no effort.
She beams at me,
And the whole world sinks
Underneath her feet,
Like the cigarette stub
That i put out every night.
She looks so serene,
Yet she haunts me dreadfully.

I tried writing about different things,
Of different kinds,
But nothing helps me let her go
Out of my mind.

The enthusiasm and gist fade, losing their core.
Whatever I write without the essence of her,
Even the audience doesn't give a heed
That's for sure.
Oh ! This yielding rage.
It feels like I am in a cage.
What is this disease?
And at what stage?
Yearnings are now beyond ages
Maybe love is just for the stoic
Just for the sage
What to do?
What to say?
I am crying,
I want my soul to slay,
My soul to slay.

Art is in the eye
of the beholder
There is no wrong
or right
In time, I think
it can grow on you
But, for the most part
it’s love at first sight

The sun has risen,
can you hear?
the songs of the morning birds.

Life begins to wake,
the gentle breeze,
blows softly against the trees.
A lovely view awaits.

The orange sky,
the feeling of life!
a beautiful sunrise it is.