1297

Go slow, my soul, to feed thyself
Upon his rare approach—
Go rapid, lest Competing Death
Prevail upon the Coach—
Go timid, should his final eye
Determine thee amiss—
Go boldly—for thou paid’st his price
Redemption—for a Kiss—

Why am I doing this again
I ask myself as
I spend another night
Pouring myself on
Paper
Only to tear it apart
Hours later
Why am I doing this again
I ask myself as
I spend another weekend
Wrapped up in
Thoughts
Of what could have been
Only to open up
To the coldness outside
Why am I doing this again
I ask myself
As I hide behind
The idea of what will be
To forget what is
Why am I doing this again
I ask myself as
I let my soul drown
Into your eyes
Eyes as black as coal
Eyes as deep as an abyss
With no end
I let myself fall
And find all
The torn papers
And all the abandoned
Thoughts
And I know the answer
To my question
I keep doing what I do
Because all of it reminds me
of your eyes
All of it reminds me
of home
And I let myself
Get consumed by you

1547

Hope is a subtle Glutton—
He feeds upon the Fair—
And yet—inspected closely
What Abstinence is there—

His is the Halcyon Table—
That never seats but One—
And whatsoever is consumed
The same amount remain—

.
A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It's the tears that trickle with radiance through words.
     It's a treasure trove that hides but longs to
     be found.
          It's a book shelved high that wants to
          be read.
               It's the freest of all birds caged but
               unbound...

A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It doesn't beat to the capable strokes of the artist.
     It doesn't pump in the most vibrant of
     colours.
          It doesn't wield a paintbrush to
          translate its thoughts.
               But it can see through the eyes of
               painters...

A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It doesn't conform to the conventional parameters of lyrics.
     It doesn't bind itself to the requirements
     of musical harmony.
          It doesn't follow the conventions of
          genres.
               But it sings its voice loud without
               restrictions of melody...

A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It's an open secret, that whispers in metaphoric codes.
     It's an exploding universe, that merges
     back into galaxies.
          It's a sought after painting, that boasts
          of unfathomable beauty.
               It's an everlasting song, that echoes
               within the poet that embodies...

A blue black cloud, all over me is written JOY
in the script of vapor, dense, moist and meaningful,
I am light, like a feather, the breeze is in love with me for that,
I love his gentle persuasion to waft, move about, explore..
and then--ravaged by wind my love changes direction.

I love freedom more than anything, but forgot limits, hover
now, I am no more attached to the green hills, they are jealous,
far above them am I, untouched by their vainglorious pride,
I am not hard-hearted, parched fields send shivers of lightning
break me in to thousand  smaller pieces, scatter around.

My love for this earth is kindled by the sights unfurling below
all the egrets, cormorants, storks and herons of great magnificence,
those kind hearted friends that fly with me often are in pain
like the farmers, there isn't enough water for anything.

A cloud is a thought, inspired by the love for mother earth
by the ocean I am gifted to the breeze, to tour around,
on many lands fell my shade, found life in all varieties,
now is the time to be kind at heart, melt, fall in torrents.

Same ****** mattress
Same ***** white walls
Same pile of unwashed laundry
Same window left ajar

Winters cold wind blows
Hollowing through the trees outside
Something colder and familiar travels on tonight's cold winter chill
It bangs on the ajar window, knocking, no, insisting to come in

It knots the stomach
It Cracks the spine
It Tightens the jaw
It Poisons the mind

Its grip tightens
It whispers memories best forgot
It sends shivers up and down the chest
It laughs as it leaves

Same ****** mattress
Same ***** white walls
Same pile of unwashed laundry
Should really close that **** window.

I'll sing of all the ways I miss you
and how this sorrow came to be
the verses, lies I should have whispered
the chorus, truths in harmony.

The melody will break the silence
and call your broken heart to me
to be repaired by love unyielding
to broken hymns in minor key.