The strings of his love
Pulled her hard.
She couldn't decide
What was nastier!
The power of his seductive words
Which bared her love.
Or the brutally metaphorical eyes
Which undressed her soul.

She wakes up
To write her feelings
On her diary.
But all she has
Is a blank page.
As pale white as death.
She fell short of words
Even when she fell in love.
Today she has a different story.

He wanted to colour her red
With his thriving love.
Now she lies in blood
Stabbed by his betraying move.

Beyond all worlds
Beyond words
I have felt for you.
And now I know
What people mean
By being in sync.
In sync with the heaven.
In sync with the universe.
In sync with you.

Needed medical attention
To treat a chronic hallucination.
They said I don't belong here
As I weave worlds unreal.
No, I don't want to...
Hallucination shows me something
What the virtual fails to see.
It's the only chasm
Which makes me forget reality
As I see you alive in my world
While you were long gone.

They look strong
With their concreteness.
Facing every storm
With an undaunted resilience.
They never bow down
Nor do they bend.
They just carry on
Like a tough hand.
The passersby marvel
at its beauty and stand.
Ignorant of all
That goes behind.
Who knows what storm
They fight inside.
Life ticks away
And it spites itself quiet.
It stays strong
Deceiving our eyes.
It hides a story
Behind its tough walls.
Every house is a father.
Who comforts you in its arms.
And like the old man
Leaves you with its rusting walls.
A house isn't a house.
It's a soul you never carry.
And a body that
You can never possibly bury.

The world inflicts wounds
I don't react.
Follows old diktats
While I see them quiet.
Treads the wrong way
And the majority sway.
I don't have a word to say.
Encourages stupidity
Motivates ignorance.
Punishes you for being right.
Rescuing the truth despite.
Still I don't react.
Kills you, destroys you
Stifles your inner voice
Undeserving people taste success
While the intelligentsia demise.
And still I am a dumb witness.
Well.. I am quiet.
But you never knew.
An ongoing fight ensues
Within a chosen few.
We call them writers
We call them lyricists
The misfits and the poets.
Fight is on
As they write along.
Behind closed doors.
The moment you say
'Yea that's true.'
We know its gone through.
Their work they dont sell
They are a closed door rebel.
Swording with the pen.
They fight battles unknown.
Their work don't sell.
They are a closed door rebel.