Ants cross the river
On the tail of a monkey;
A new fraternity!

I get lost in...
Hidden ideas and deeper meanings to what I'm feeling.
Looking for something real to believe in.
Over-thinking usto...start me drinking...
But I kicked that ***** to the curb and built myself a bandwagon.

That **** was poison, see...
I had to let myself help me.

Now when I close my eyes...
All I can hear is the...
Rattle-rattle-click, rattle-rattle-click...
The sound of round rotations, rolling over bricks.
Measured like a metronome...
Water droplets echo as they drip.

But if freedom is defined by the thoughts in my own my mind, then I'm frozen in the timeframe of tomorrow, never-yesteryear.
And I'm still a revolutionary, I expect the best in Here(point to heart).
And by that, I mean exempt from holding contempt for another mass of energy.
Another open ear.
Another open mind.
Another heavenly body.
Another mystical meteor shower.
Another alien species placed on this planet by a "higher power".

But who am I to point fingers?
To point out flaws.
To point out fraudulence.
To pinpoint the factors that built your facade.
To pick through your red brick fictons of how you think I should be perceiving god.

See...I get lost.
In a magic land...
With a tragic hand.
A tear in time and space...
A human definition of race...
One we so often judge with a 2 sided face.

The fingers of the Heat
Roll down my body in public!

Zero shyness!

I'm married to summer!

It's the snow
That falls smoothly,
And covers your body,
But leaves you soon.

It's an ordinary evening:
The children in the park, playing,
grandfather on the chair, cuppa
In his trembling hands, with bones
Making them slender branches,
Granny, with rosary, shouting
At the falling of utensils,
And Mr. Khan soaking up indignation,
Came out, and looked at the silent sky,
And sat in the lawn to smell daffodils.
It's not an ordinary evening:
The thickest smoke was the sky
In the park after a huge explosion
Had smashed all the lovely faces
Of those Who were friendly with greenery. Everyone rushed
across the road to see theirs,
But skeletons scattered around.
There's no ordinary evening:
No shouting of granny,
No chair of grandfather outside,
And no jumping, hopping
In the beautiful park,
And he looked at invisible face of God.

I don't find limiting myself with a title,
There are no boxes left for me to fit in,
Or burst out of....
I find it's excitingly horrifying to be,
This lost.
There's a similar difference between identity and persona,
I am what I am, am I?
What am I?
Do you think the men I have only half loved,
But stroked their meek egos of,
And the woman I have cowered at,
As they screamed my name,
Know what I am,
Is not who I am?
There is a solace to be found in being wanted;
Are you the one they fall to on a late night,
When they are alone and drunk?
What about when their beds are cold?
When they cannot see you because, they are blinded,
By their quest to find themselves more, and you,
And you,
My dear,
Oh my sweet you,
Who is no one in this world,
Are a literally stepping stone in under their feet,
As you wish to be a moon in their stars.
What they don't tell you,
About surviving trauma when your brain is developing,
Is that your world turns to opposites,
Chaos is home
Drugs are home
Hate is home
Fear, is home;
Here secreted beneath my pallid skin,
I try to find them all a home,
Knowing I'll never find mine.
If self care and therapy was literal exercise,
I could bench press all of you, and more,
And save you all;
My motivation to not be broken is stronger than my will to die,
And they'll never know that,
As they try to break me,
Over and over, and over,
And over again.
Everyone's broken.
No sorry, everyone has cracked edges,
Worn
Rusty
Mishandled a few times
Repainted
Cracked
Not broken, slightly damaged.
We, the ones filled with gilded light, and songbirds,
We know the ******* difference between depression,
And eternal internal sadness,
From not understanding love, to
Loving EVERYONE
From seeking solace in the extreme,
To running away from arms that seek to confine.
Where for art ******* thou?

We are not here for your pleasure.
But we are.
How could we be, but anything else?

I tired.
Sorry...
I tried.
Men.
Women.
Whisky.
*******.
Driving too fast.
Telling them.
Saving them.
Being everything.
Hating.
Fighting.
Drowning.
Breathing.
Exalting.
Cryi­ng.
Pain.
Pleasure.
Writing

This isn't a shopping list.
It's. Not a bucket list.
It's what we do to survive,
When you're born without love.

Friend of fingers, o keyboard,
Valorous and mild I call thee;
How soft replies, what a mode
Of being handy thou ever apply

Buy tickets, and go late
When the movie has moved on.
You know your thrill, too, has flowed.

Recharge your card,
Reshuffle your busy schedule
When it's India and Pakistan T20 final,
And reach home in a whisker
After some overs have been bowled.
Irritation will catch you
Like the cold in sheer winter.

Your bride is waiting at the door.
It's your first visit at her house.
You miss the bus, get on the auto,
And her smile is over.
As you meet her,
You say, sorry, sorry, sorry.

Getting late is swimming in troubles.
Waking up in the morning,
Not with the sunrise,
Is booking boredom, passivity,
And drinking Bisleri frustration
For the full day.

Penning a poem on love
Is forgetting failure,
And fear of not forgetting
That feared the poet,
If he'd been the victim of veering
Of his long love.

Words don't work themselves,
They're pushed in the ring.

It needs courage to combat
The loss that lasts for many years,
And their shadows shun
Chances of a cool vibe.

Love poems are heroic.

I long to live in their minds
For such greatness.

Wear the moon on your body
Darkness will never affect your walking

How soon the things are seriously shifted.
How soon some are replaced with others.
That are placed on the scales, if scrapes.
That are deposited in the dustbin, if cards.
Last month, Mr. Khan, contracted with cancer,
Passed away peacefully during sound sleep.
The name plate was Mr. Rashid Khan on the twentieth day.
The main gate was near the stairs the other day.
The cycle went to the hawker for a little amount.
His clothes were determinedly doled out to beggars.
Whatever was his in the house  was of others.
Black was brown, and he was out of his right.

It will be the first snow
After many moons
And my bare boughs
Won't brood over showers
I will hold the love-some lily
And see its smile
Sunshining around
The beautifully blanketed bed
Oblivious of onus
We will write our wishes widely
On the edges of our eyes
In some silence