it takes courage to step out the door;
to pick your battles,
when there’s nothing left fighting for.

saw this cute girl the other day…
while smoking a cigarette at my balcony:
i was hovering over the pathway  
she’d eventually cross,
like an apparition watching over
her resplendent ignorance.

she eventually did -
the cigarette, having not been ****** on
for a while, drooped like a limp ****
between my fingers;
i flicked the bud:
the ashes drifted away with the wind,
like confetti -
in the same direction she walked off
below -
as i watched from above.

you can see my scars;
my face is riddled with them.
i often wonder,
how anyone could miss them -
yet, they always seem to.

it takes a good look, i guess -
to see how bad things really are.

perhaps they’re blinded
by the smile i put up;
a slick smile, it is -  
surgical -
like a scar…
a big scar,
that hides the smaller ones.

the other day,
it hit me like a truck -
while i was walking to the cigarette shop,
my vanity still in awe of
‘how anyone could miss them…!’  
a man, i saw.
an old man -  
with overgrown ****** hair,
and a yellow mustard duffle coat,  
walking my way.
a flash of traffic light
streaked across his face,
and a feeling took over me;
a strange feeling -
like i had seen a ghost from my past,
or perhaps,
my future.

as he passed me by,
he smiled at me.
ceremoniously, but still.  
as did i.
we timed it perfectly -
like an ambidextrous artist
were at work,
drawing identical curves
with their hands.
i noticed,
my smile had lasted longer
than i expected.

a few yards down the road,
i stopped abruptly…
and whimpered,
‘oh...’

a quote of wisdom
makes it to school bulletin;
janitor reads it.

the mistakes i've made
have made me question -
the boy who wrote
his plan, as a freshman,
on piece of paper
so fragile, and brief -
it drifted away,
somewhere down the cliff.

sounded like the truth,  
but it’s not for me to say;
i better hold my tongue -
the lies are close; too grave -
to utter in vain with
but a forked tongue;
i must wipe the poison
off my plate.

there’s not enough blood
to quench the thirst -
of the beast that feeds
on the power of my lust;
i hope it finds
it’s peace, when i lay:
ashes to ashes,
dust to dust.

i better take my place:  
stand guard for the day -
at the palace of my mind,
where once, i would play;
a child of destiny -
fumbling to say the grace;
reading into his mistakes;

seemed the better way.

a restless jitter;
skin-deep promises, unkept:
no nails left to bite.

shall i scream,
or sing a low hum?
read Poe -
or write a poem?  
the clock ticks away -
my fingers go numb;
my eyes wide open;
my voice -

so dumb.

shall i compare myself to others every day?
they are more charming, and more talented:
tough luck does take its toll; often too hefty to pay,
and the bill of regrets is way past its due date;
sometimes too hot the baton of pride burns inside,
and often in a sea of mediocrity naked, i swim;
and every ball from ball sometimes drops,
by a poet in his underpants, and *****, untrimm’d;
but my eternal hard-on shall not fade,
nor lose faith inside the hole i bore’st;
nor shall spite keep me from dues unpaid,
when that eternal hard-on in time so grow’st:
so long as i can sing, profoundly and care-free,
so long lives this - it’s a fun read, won’t you agree?

split it anyway -
countenance of grief leaves back
a scar, forever.

fear is an illusion that feels more real than life itself, at times. scores of artists have succumbed to the despair brought upon by the fear of overexposing themselves. you know them - the writers who won’t write - the painters who won’t paint - and the sculptors who won’t get their hands *****. maybe you’ve even met one or two. or know someone close to you who might be of a certain poignant disposition that’s impossible to ignore. if not, perhaps it’s time to have a closer look at the mirror.

it’s true that those who dare to traverse the forest of the unknown must encounter the beasts that lurk in the darkness. some are benign. some are malevolent. at first, you’re terrified of them all. but as you go farther and deeper into the forest, you soon realize that they’ve become some of your dearest friends, despite all the wounds you’ve inflicted upon each other during your skirmishes. you learn to tame them, feed them, and eventually, cage them. yet after all this, the question, or rather, the fear remains - can you ever bring them out into the real world? and more importantly, what would they do to your mind if you do?

a scary thought for many artists, indeed.

but perhaps these ‘beasts’ may not be as bloodthirsty for our spirits as we might think. perhaps, it’s about how we personify them in our minds. there’s a beautiful poem by charles bukowski called ‘bluebird’ that speaks exactly of this fear, and perhaps even offers an antidote. it immortalises the little bird in the writer’s heart, a rather benign beast, that sings every now and then, unafraid, and in spite of what its captor might think, or feel, or do. it reminds us that it’s okay to let the bird sing every now and then - because it will - and not let it die so finally. it implores us to not sacrifice it at the altar of perfection, but rather be gentle with its humble feathers.  

something i believe we could all do with our own little bluebirds.

a glass of bourbon
unspent napkins on the side
the cheque is written

i can feel the weight,
on my tongue -
of a heart so heavy,
and a mind so young;
i cannot say -
why i went this way;
i do not know, how to
get off the causeway:

on one end, there’re facts;
though verified, and true -
on the other end, lie feelings,
i never really knew -
i had buried so deep,
i failed to see them through;
the facts - do not change,
but the feelings - they do.

i promised not to rely too much
on one way, or the other;
now i’m stuck, biding my time,
reflecting on shallow waters:
i look, long and hard, and see -
the feelings start to resurface;
but in fact, i see -
a herring’s carcass - floating -
so still, and perfect.

a shadow streaks across my face -
i brace myself for, just in case -
i feel it looming - heinously close;
in fact, it’s an eagle;
i step aside - clear the way:  
the eagle tucks its wings
for a nosedive;
it wants the herring -
dead or alive:
it takes what it wants,
leaves nothing behind -
neither facts, nor feelings;
only ripples of lies.

come every morning,
i open my eyes slowly,
like i was trained to.

walk me down the alley, will you?
it’s so dark, and terribly true:
the walls close in;
the air cuts thin;
on a skin that’s weary of
a diabolical flu.

i’ll walk behind ya, all the way -
for i have nothing good to say -
of the ones who lurk
in dreary corners -  
where hope turns bleak;
i dare not speak -

for they can sense
my breathless words;
my every move;
even thoughts, unheard;
you must take caution,
stay low, stay far:
they might mistake us
for who we are  

almost there,
just a few more yards…
you may drop me off yonder -
that moonlit graveyard:
will be there, for a while -
don’t wait too long;
the night isn’t over -
things could go wrong.

hand trembling inside the pocket;
knuckles scraping against the outseam;
fingertips crawling into the deepest corner;
nails clawing at a ball of thread -
too stubborn for its own good;
wrist hair tugging at a rough patch;
fist holding onto itself;  
palm lines lacking conviction;
fingerprints blaming each other;
nerves adjusting to the pressure:  
pulsations full of dread;  

the pocket stays empty.

a brick in the wall -
an ant crawls into a crack;
becomes family.

i never believed i could fly...
yet, the other day,
i found myself 30,000 ft in the air -
yet again -
having a hard time believing
the captain’s reassuring words.

i was stopped thrice by security;
there was so much metal on me,
you could taste it in the air around me.
i could swear the metal detector had
picked up on my insecurity -
as it swiftly brushed against a drop of
sweat at my temple.
the ‘beeps’ might as well’ve been
swear words,
censored.

having already had two hits of the ‘good stuff’
before leaving for the port,
to say i was paranoid would be an understatement.  
‘what if the machine picks up
traces of substance off my sweat?!!’
yep - i did think so.
‘twas bad.

already late for boarding,
i managed to find myself at the gate,
and into the aircraft,
at the indifferent pace of the final announcement.
the air hostess peddled a magazine my way:
i accepted it -  
read it;
then closed it;
it had no substance.

i could feel the turbulence getting louder;
in my head, that is;
there was a pressure difference,
that didn’t feel any different:
‘twas just something that had to be dealt with;
so i split the difference -
i held my breath,
and it let loose - my dread.

the branded seats featured a slogan
from a recent ad campaign by the airline
celebrating its 18th anniversary -
‘how time flies’, it read;
‘clever…’, i thought -
then turned a sour eye to the window,  
having not written it myself.

i saw the setting sun, past the surging clouds -
flares galloping across their shifting terrain
like little kids on a merry-go-round
chasing each other -
too young to realize
it was never meant to be a race.  
i couldn’t help but chuckle
at that radiant sincerity.

for all intents and purposes,
‘twas was a golden hour;
fifty five minutes,
to be precise.

i liked a girl from school, she was,
for me, a little too cool; she was -
on top of her game:  
something to aim for, she was -
hardly concerned if I had a last name.

i remember those roll calls…
my head leaning against the wall
just to sneak a momentary gaze,
as she'd stand up to answer the teacher's call.

“present, sir.." or "..ma’am”,
that’s all she’d say.
and I knew I’d make it through the day.
i believed someday,
with a voice so sweet,
she’d give me a call,
ask me to meet.

and though that day never came to pass
i remember looking through the broken glass -
of the bus window with a muddy tint.
i could still see her like fine print.

i remember her doe-brown eyes,
her fleshy lips -
the belt clutching her beckoning hips
i’d go to sleep,
drooling like a creep.  
in my slumber,
we’d meet in our secret keep.

she spoke in riddles, it would seem:  
but i could trace the general theme -
she’d throw me on the bed, and i’d fall -
right out of my wishful dream.

it’s absurd, i know -
i’m not a fool.
yet sometimes,
i wish i were the ‘cool kid’ in school.
and though her memories are all a blur,
i’ve yet to meet a girl like her.

pulverized by desolate winds;
brutalized by ungodly kings;
capsized by the violent waves;
neutralized by the scorpion’s sting.

terrorized by the thoughts of morrow;
legitimized by a trademark of sorrow;
authorized to live in vain;
generalized - like the streets,
and the boroughs.

synthesized by the alchemy of remorses;
romanticized… like the dark horses;
mesmerized by the notion of vengeance -
hypnotized by even darker curses.

digitized by the ways of future;
mystified by metrics, and conjectures;
specialized in the pursuit of reality -
'civilized' by the grand architecture.

there’s a great divide -
between the anatomy of my brain,
and the fluidity of my mind;
i struggle to make the crossover,
for i must advance in phases
in between their flimsy makeovers:
in, and out -
then back in again.
the brain is humbled by its own mortality;
the mind boasts of an eternal life;
both petrified by rancid thoughts
of yesterday -
and the day before that -
and the month before that -
and the years before…

as i regress -
slowly, and infinitely -
i long for my natal mind,
and a tougher cranium.

i could tell the time at an early age;
yet, i could never tell the misery
of the hour hand of the clock -
that lies in wait...
for what i imagine,
must feel like an eternity,
at the mercy of the minute hand
to finish a full round -
as it is, in turn,
at the mercy of the second hand;
only to move but a
fraction of an inch on its axis:  
so it can be worthy of its name.

surely, it’s the loneliest of
the three hands;
yet, perhaps, also the wisest -
for it knows what’d happen
if it ceases to move -
even for an hour, as it were.
you see, the illusion of a moving clock
is maintained only by the hour hand.
the minute hand could stop for a minute -
and we wouldn’t mind much;
the second hand could stop for a second -
no harm done;
but if the hour hand stops for an hour -
well, we’d notice.

i can never really tell the time now;
just the hour in which i exist.

a nervous 𝘵𝘴𝘬 of the lips
a little drop of sweat bulging at the neck
an eyelid flickering way too much
a mind that won’t change
a pillow that reeks of salt
a photograph of a distant memory
a fly buzzing around the plasma tube light
a buzz that won’t go away

a switch that won’t turn off
a stain that won’t dust off
a walk that’s unusual for the age
a kid who refuses to play

it’s the little things that give you away

i feign to say
what i cannot share.
bite my tongue
like i do not care.
the demons draw blood,
as i beg for air.
here comes a verse…
i did not prepare.

sullied by half-truths,
the mind lays bare -
to a world of treachery;
governed by distant affairs.
i cannot be a saint,
though i have some
good to spare;  
they fuel my incense, as i -
say my morning prayers.

look around -
they’re everywhere.
the sinners crawl from
the devil’s lair;
they coerce me to follow:
how’s that fair?
**** it -
i’ll end it here.

the phone’s rung twice now;
i can hear it from the bath,
too naked to talk.

every day, he looked out the window,
his inhibitions toppling over like dominos;
he gawked at the blackbirds, all the same:
he could not tell a friend from a foe.

he never thought he’d go so far -
as to slay ‘the raven’ with a crooked crowbar;
his conscience dripped with sins, and rose -
a thorny heap of fallacies, charred.

he blamed the world for all he was;
convinced in his soul that he had a good cause:
it wasn’t enough to redeem his faux pas, so -
he bore the tag of an ill-fated outlaw.

of all the names, by which he was called,
who knew - one day - he’d cease to show up?
a child dead of his innocence, who
never learned how to -
as they say -

‘grow up!’

the path lays trodden;
a milestone, leads to nowhere;
somewhere down, a leaf floats -
mid-air - to the whims of the cold breeze,
afraid to touch the bitter ground.
the soldiers are afoot;
marching to the sound
of static, broadcasted by their
unreliable leaders.
the innocent seek asylum -
flee from states of unrest;
the power seems absolute -
hardly dynamic;
pistols aim for the heads;  
warheads aim for the heads -
of nations - all trying to outperform  
each others’ retribution;
panzers guard the rogue bases,
like hellhounds, starved of souls.
mothers kiss their babes, ‘--night’,
then wipe their hapless tears;  
fathers beg for their sons’ lives,
and their daughters’ honour;
God exists only in afterthoughts;
ceremonies shroud in silence;
children become too self-aware
for their undemanding ages;
schools shut their gates -
push them further into the nightmare;
tell them they don’t belong;

one of them’s had enough…
pushes back.

a fog, i saw,
in the mist of night.
humble, it led me
to the ***** of the beast -
who pet me, and held me, and licked me,
until it, and i, were one.  
my restless heart would not let the
beast be at peace…
‘what lies into the night?’, i insisted.
‘i must know. tell me now, i say.’
and the beast shook its head - nay.
‘travel not, nor inquire, into the sea of despair’,
it groaned, ‘it leads good men astray’.

‘but i’m not scared’, i said.
‘look at me… i’m you. i’m mighty.’
‘what could possibly hurt you?’
‘what could possibly hurt… us?’

‘you mistake me for my appearance, young man’,
the beast hummed from within.
‘i am but a vessel.’
‘i do not possess the might you seek.’
‘i was sculpted in your image,
and scores of such valiant seekers
who carrowed their poise for pride’.
‘but if you must -'
'i’m obliged to warn you, as they would -’
‘you may not forget what you see;’
‘you may not like what you hear;’
‘the sea is not forgiving to men
who trespass upon the realms of solitude’
‘hope you’re ready - ’  
‘it gets colder as we get nearer.’

and as we passed the bay of deadly sins,
where tales of woe would barren lay -
sure enough, i heard a faint
rallying cry from far away;
‘the captain must’ve lost his wits...’,
sighed the beast -
‘his compass must’ve failed to obey.’
a requiem followed the shipwreck,
as the shallow winds kissed the
waters grey.

'selfless gratitude' -
not something one inherits;
a skill one acquires.

i'm still running, running fast;
i'm running fast... i'm running fast -
this was never meant to last!

i’ve done it again -
i know not why.
with tethered wings,
i sought to fly:
my feathers dye crimson
in the grips of disquiet;
a sworn enemy now,
though once an ally.

i fight the urge
to be myself.
yet, sometimes -
i get overwhelmed
by a sense of futility,
so strong, and lovely;
i’d trade the world for,
and all its wealth.

i hurdle through life
with a beacon un-flamed -
a blackbird through seasons,
with a spirit untamed.
i urge for someone to
light the torch,
so i may sew - the
verses i maimed.

and though i’m weary -
but not for worse;
i must prepare to die again.
tonight, i chase the truth -
for tomorrow -
i must lie again.

it terrifies me sometimes…
the ugliness that smears the world -
with shades of despair, and evils unheard.

there’re things you hear, and learn, and know,
and wonder how mankind could stoop so low.
your fury knows what must be done, yet -
powerless you watch the madness grow.

the night is no longer the custodian of evil;
we see it day in, and day out.
the morning news, the afternoon bites;
come evening, you’d rather gouge your eyes out.

the screams of anguish of a woman bent over -
on the tasteless floor, her innocence devoured.
the wrath of a community, on the back of one man,
who dared speak his mind - his life is over!  

the game of politics,
the lies, the trecheries;
men without jobs - or homes -
living on the streets.
an animal slain to please a God,
as a child watches,
only to repeat.

yet it all goes on,
as though a **** in the wind.
the world tells you,
‘grow up, man! grow a thick skin.’
i wish i could tell you otherwise -
a story not so bleak.
but there…
they probably beheaded a son before his mother,
as we speak.

the shirt, unbuttoned;
the V cuts deep enough for -
U to C me bare.

don’t think you’ll get away with this!
you pushed an innocent soul into the abyss.
‘sacrilege’, i say -
what a terrible way…
to enslave a wounded angel;
pluck away at its shrewd feathers;
torture it for wits;
and for what?
some cheeky wordplay?  

how could you!
how dare you watch it bleed -  
through the trappings of your greed.
have you no pity?
have you no mercy?
are you so bereft of compassion,
that you’d go so far as to maim a messenger of God,
just to have what you need?

let it out, i say!
let it free.
none of this is fair,
i know… i agree!
but you never had the right -
to steal the light:
from a spirit so bright,
in the stillness of the night.  

it’ll all be forgotten,
should you accept the blame.
perhaps, find a piece of rock to maim.
not a soul so benign,
even in such misery it prays -  
‘forgive him for his sins, my Lord,
for i have done the same.’

he lost his way, he knows not when.
chasing false idols he mistook for men.
he'd lose the child, if he only knew then -
he'd find a way to be a man again.

a petal wafts through the fields;
as though a cradle for the morning dew
forged by winter’s labour.

the flower remains anonymous.

i snort the pillow;
lick shampoo off her hair strands;
she’s on to witchcraft.

there’s enough anger in one man
to put even the Gods to shame;
it speaks to him in
mournful moments, when -
the shadow of doubt clouds  
his acumen, and his candour
reigns far too long.

he sleeps with it;
dreams of it;
and once it has
invaded his subconscious,
he revels in it --
it makes him feel powerful,
and hungry for a scam
that disguises itself as a reward.

belittled by his own words,
he seeks refuge in others
who share his wrath -
for they are everywhere:
they help him carve his words
into a dagger of insecurity,
with which he stabs those
who tried to offer him
an antonym for violence;

the blood he draws shall
dye his conscience -
evil red.

write a verse,
write a song,
write it with the chillum of a ****.
write slow, write fast -
write with an ******* while it lasts.
write for the right reasons, and the wrong ones too:
write because it matters to you.
write like a man, write like a woman -
write despite their contempt, unforgiven.
write on the walls,
of the times you recall -
when you felt small,
or when you’d fall.
write your heart out!
write your ***** out! -
and don’t you ever doubt -    
wheather it’ll work out,
or choke your bank account.
write, if not for anything -
for the hope that still lies within;
just write, do not ask why!
if you must know -
write because you’d rather die.

write, my friend -
write.

your smile confounds:
how it opens at my touch
yet, closes softly,
like a snare that traps my defiance;

                            - keeps me modest.

i adore how your lower lip spasms with desire,
while your upper lip struggles to hide it.
i know there’s more to your smile,
for i have kissed you -
with an undying thirst
that respawns at the close of day.

i’ll forever be in awe -
of the benevolence you summon
with your subtleties;

                          - keeps me honest.

i long for your smile;
i long for your love;
i long for another day -
with you.

hello?
you there…?
i can’t hear you!
we haven’t talked in a while, it’s true.
thought i’d remind you - the rent is due.
maybe… have a shower, or two?

i wanted to -
let you -
know that i haven’t given up on you.
though i’ll admit, it took a lot of work -
to finally get through to you.

it was brave what you did,
and stupid at the same time;
thinking you could make the climb,
holding on to your gratuitous rhymes.

it takes a while to see what's wrong
with all the ways you've known all along;
it never hurts to take a little detour -
ask for help, when you're not too sure.

don’t be too ******* yourself,
take it easy.
not everyone will see, or get,
what you see.
move around -
pick up a book -
or better, a blank page.
let your purpose take the center stage.

just one thing before i go,
perhaps, it’s good to let a few things go.  
anyway,
thought you could use some counseling.
come to think of it,
were you even listening?
hello?
you there…?

ऐ ज़िंदगी... थोड़ा हौले!
जिस ओर भी देखूं, तेरी रफ़्तार मानो पल भर में दुगनी हो जाती है।
तू चाहे तो इंद्र के वज्र को भी मात दे दे,
मेरी ये छोटी सी इमरजेंसी लाइट तेरे सामने क्या?

माना कि तेरा कमान थोड़ा भारी है,
पर मेरी कोशिश जारी है।
ना जाने कितने ही साँपों ने काटा मुझे अब तक,
अब सीढ़ियों पर चढ़ने की मेरी बारी है।

मैं कह रहा, ऐ ज़िंदगी, थोड़ा हौले!
मुझे भी तो संभलने का एक मौका दे दे।
छक्का नहीं लग रहा, तो दो-चार चौके ही दे दे।
शायद मेरी आवाज़ तुझ तक पहुँची नहीं।
और पहुँचेगी भी कैसे?
फिज़िक्स बुक में नहीं पढ़ा था?...
“Light travels at 3x10^8 m/s, whereas sound can only travel at 340 m/s…”

...वो देखो, मैं भी पागल!
ना जाने कहाँ से कहाँ चला गया...
इसी चंचल से मन को तो कायम करना था!
भूल गया कि साला राइम भी करना था।

माफ़ कीजिएगा,
शायद कुछ और ही कहना था मुझे,
पर मैं नादान किसी और ही दिशा में भाग रहा था।
भावनाओं में बहना था मुझे,
और मैं लॉजिक के गोते लगा रहा था।

कुछ ऐसा ही हर बार होता है।
बेताबी का मुझ पर हर पल वार होता है।
मन है मेरा, और इस पर मेरा ही काबू नहीं?
आख़िर ये कैसा समझौता है?

तो आइए, अब वापिस आते हैं।
इस अफ़साने को एक खूबसूरत अंजाम तक ले जाते हैं।
जाने देते हैं ज़िंदगी को अपनी रफ़्तार से आगे...
जहाँ कोई नहीं गया, आज वहाँ जाते हैं!

ज़िंदगी से जीतना कुछ और बात होती है।
पर ज़िंदगी को जीने में बात ही कुछ और होती है।
तो क्या हुआ,
अगर थोड़ी देर पुरानी यादों को चूम आया?
तो क्या हुआ,
अगर चलते-चलते एक नया मोड़ घूम आया?
प्यार से कह दूंगा ज़िंदगी को,
'मेरी जान, इस कमान का भार लेकर
बढ़ने में थोड़ी तो तकलीफ़ होगी।'
जैसे लेट होने पर बाबा माँ को फोन पर कहते,
'आ रहा हूँ, बस थोड़ी देर होगी।'

बड़े होते बस यही सुना था,
‘कुछ सोच बड़ा, कुछ कर बड़ा।’
काँटों भरी इस राह पर मैं नंगे पाँव ही निकल पड़ा।
बहुत निचोड़ा इन भावों को मैंने,
इस खोज में मैंने बहुत सहा।
पर जो दिल से चाहिए, साला आखिर वो मिलता कहाँ!

एक शैतान है मुझमें, जो रोज़ कहता है,
‘छोड़ दे पैशन, कमा ले पैसे।’
‘कला के इस महासागर में डूब मरे हैं तेरे जैसे।’
मानता कहाँ दिल फिर भी मेरा?
ये तो है उसके लिए साँस की तरह!
अब चाहे डूब कर मरे या हो जाए जल कर राख,
इससे दुनिया का क्या लेना-देना?
अपनी लड़ाई भी तो यारो, आखिर खुद से ही थी ना?

कलम की नोक पर ज़िंदगी का भार
उठाते कलाईयाँ रगड़ गईं।
ग़रीबी में आटा गीला था,
आँसुओं से बात और बिगड़ ही गई।
चलो कोई नहीं, मैं भी मान गया!
गिले-शिकवों को पेपरवेट के नीचे दबा गया।
स्याही की कड़वी स्वाद को होठों से लगा गया।
मूंगफली पड़ी थी, उसे रोटी के बीच डाल कर चबा गया।

खोज रहा हूँ आज भी मैं विचारों की वो वर्णमाला,
सहारे जिसके कह सकूँ जो इतने दिन मैंने टाला।

तितर-बितर करते, इधर-उधर भागते,
थोड़ा भटक सा गया हूँ…
बंद घड़ी की सुई की तरह मानो जैसे अटक सा गया हूँ।
वक्त के आगे अपनी क़िस्मत लिखने को जूझ रहा हूँ।
अल्फ़ाज़ों से सजे इस दर्पण को
मैं आपकी ओर रख कर पूछ रहा हूँ…

‘क्या आपको पता है गौरव का फूल किस चोटी पर खिलता है?’
‘ज़िंदगी में जो चाहिए, साला आखिर वो कहाँ मिलता है?’

उस जज़्बात का क्या ज़िक्र करू, जो कभी तुझसे कहा ही नहीं!
तू वो था, जो कभी था ही नहीं।

आंसुओं से नमकीन तकिये पर वो ख्यालों का समंदर साध रहा है
निराशा की लहरों के बीच वो अपनी कमर कसकर बाँध रहा है
व्याकुलता पर नियंत्रण कर, वो धीरे-धीरे आगे बढ़ रहा है
गौर से देखो, वो कुछ कर रहा है!

बे-बात ही न जाने क्यों ही दुनिया से वो लड़ रहा है -
शायद अपनी बात रखने की ही तैयारी कर रहा है
महानों के इतिहास में झांक कर वो
अपने भविष्य के पन्ने भर रहा है!
उसे कुछ देर अकेला छोड़ दो,
वो कुछ कर रहा है!

कुछ सोच रहा है, कुछ समझ रहा है!
बंद होठों के पीछे उसका दिल ज़ोर-ज़ोर से गरज रहा है।
भले ही आज अपने ही लिखे पर हस्ताक्षर करने को डर रहा है -
पर उसे कमज़ोर मत समझना,
वो ज़रूर कुछ कर रहा है!

परिश्रम का फल सदा से अमर रहा है,
पर करने वालों पर सदा से अमंगल का क़हर रहा है।
इसके बावजूद, वो कोयले सा तपकर हीरे सा निखर रहा है -
गौर से देखो, वो कुछ कर रहा है!