There in the air, it hung, muted yet palpable,
like the  inebriating scent of new rain on earth
with this signal morning alluded something,
as if challenging anyone there to swiftly respond.

Gazing at the far away mountains, waking up,
pulling away slowly the blanket of darkness
a purple sun above making a symphony of colors
she is caught in the waves of the mood, it's cadence
captures the spirit in a poem; it blooms on it's own.

Zestfully she reads it in her resounding voice,as if
to the chickens clucking around in the cluttered barn
there wasn't any audience other than the birds and the cattle;
a sudden change the chickens,strange, till the moment before
they were looking for a worm or two in the black earth.

As if forgotten all other things the chicken stood
their head held high, beaks open as if to peck
in an attentive posture, they stood listening to her,
the moment they got the tune right,started reciting it.

The cows in the shed  turned to the direction of her voice,
as if it's a song, and it's for them she was singing .

I am not a poet,
But a poem,
Just trying to complete myself.
Or maybe,
-I am Completing myself..

.                         A
                     Tiny hat
                My forefathers
            Humble beginnings
        I somewhat envy them bec
Ause then,they had their own styl
          E with self made values
          And rules not trying to
          Copy others but living
          in utmost grace and si
          mplicity.though I woul
          dn't want to live back;
          in those days,I respect
   The strength of my forefathers
   Their intellect and wisdom,yes.

Everything is art.
The ground you walk on, your cloud of thoughts in the sky
And the sunset's a splash of orange paint, spilled on your canvas waiting to dry
See everything just wants you to stop and notice it..
Go get your paint brush and show me, what you're currently in awe with

Everything is great
Honest words that come easily,
And the way a person looks when they dance freely
Everything is great....
but I'm not fine?
And everything is art...
but all i see are random lines.

Every day is filled with something new.
Only difference is I'm feeling more restless
I tried taking half a pill and woke up
With the same migraine i slept with
Oh everything's a blur.
Traffic lights and busy nights,
Thoughts pounding; thoughts pleading
Everything's a mess
Even the structure of this poem
Thoughts crying, thoughts screaming
Oh everything i say
Just comes across as so awkward
I tried to write a poem about art
About love
About stars
And pretty words
I tried to rhyme my love for you
With some random **** like dove shampoo
Oh everything's coming out unfiltered and sorry its unloaded all onto you..

Maybe everything's just in our minds..
Our fears, our delusions..
I'm sure the universe is too busy existing as art; to be plotting against all us humans..
And you are wonderfulll, so beautiful
It wouldn't be a typical poem, if i didn't mention that at all

Not everything is black and white
Sometimes there's drops of pink and grey
But when they told me to paint them a picture of what love meant to me,
I took a pen and some paper, and just spelled out your name.