When this world has deprived you
Land beneath your feet,
Air for you to breathe,
Hope to grant you sleep,
I will be here.
And I will write
Of you,
For you,
To you-
I will write a world
through and through.
No matter how all edges
has pinned my arms
on the tamest grounds,
still I will write
of one true wild.
I will write a world made
For you, especially for you-
To survive.

You need to get out of bed.
You need to get a life.
They said.
Yes, I do need to get out of bed.
All these lying in bed without
Winking a **** sleep
Is mocking my sheets
To shame.
I do need to get out of it.
Also
My pillow
Almost
Smells like the sea.
Salty drops of moisture
Wasting themselves in the sponge
That is my pillow.
And it’s like the sea to me.
The sea and its lust in drowning me to life.
The sea I always create.
The sea that dries up
Before the morning light.

Time.
What of it?
What of time that rips
helpless memories
away from the present air?
Can’t you see?
-that no matter how
we glamour time we lost
as “history”,
regardless of how we count
ancient hours
as great stories splattered
across books
-still,
none of it and none of it,
will ever belong to us again?
Time gives us photograph,
too dead in black and white,
and within the inches of its
tangibility rest
the bruises left by longing.

That is time.
That is what of it.

If you ever find yourself slouched on the world’s perfect riddance
If, somehow, all the air that’s stayed with you are smokes of cigarettes
If you know that you have fallen into the hands of hell, blazing with fire,
Flickering like live wire,
Seek further down the path-
Intrude further down the core-
For there is no question,
How diamonds find derision, isolation and hell
As places to score a flawless sleep.