I am a stargazer. A dreamer.
I want my pupils to be blackholes;
I want them to **** all the light from the burning stars
and equalise them with the darkness.
Because when I look at them,
their magical light and deceiving beauty
lures me. Pulls me.
And I get scared that I will burn if I dream...
burn if I try to reach for the stars.

All I ever wanted to be,
was a Mender of Cracked Hearts.
But maybe I didn’t have the skills,
the touch, the strategy.
Or maybe a spirit possessed me.
And now strewn all across my inescapable path,
are painful, tormenting, glistening shards.
I can either tread the painful path
or be a Carpenter of Broken Hearts.

Fabricate    the world,
tile                     by tile,
Until the towers sway.

     Overlook the foundations,
     in your                     frenzy;
     cement them another day.
      
           Let the buildings descend;
           frightened            humans,
           their lives        in jeopardy

                They felt         invincible,
                now are            vulnerable-
                their lives have become tardy.

                               *        *       *
                 the bird soars high above
                 the streets are         empty
                 its screeches                 for
                 we are no                   more

He threw a pebble in my emocean.
It silently sank to the bottom.
He was dry. He caused no commotion.

Struggling,
he threw a boulder in my emocean.
A small splash. It sank.
He got a little wet - tears rolled down
in slow motion.

Every muscle burning,
he pushed a mountain into my emocean.
A big splash. Inevitably, it sank.
He was drenched. He caused a lot of commotion.

Mustering all his will,
He shook my crust, my foundation.
A giant wave, as tall as the sky, rose
and swallowed him. He drowned
in my emocean.

Death will see me one day,
though I see it not.
Amidst the strife or passion,
death will have me caught.

The graves will grow ancient,
the flint will kindle anew,
and though I struggle to endure,
death won't stop to rue.

      ____

When darkness has entombed me,
hark! let no one mourn,
for I was meant to go heart, not soul,
into the unknown.

Perilous deluge...
Barley swaying with the zephyr;
The land is fallow.

Proud, Swift, tireless and bold
a beast of glory and deeds untold
Lordly, high and paramount
with strides more elegant than count

Warm, Old, daring and fast
with warmth in heart unsurpassed
strong, tall, perilous and fair
A horse: A stallion or a mare.

On a blue and starry night,
On a hammock so light and cold,
I sat,
Swinging with the night time breeze.

The stars spoke to me,
Of the universe and beyond,
Yet, the moon so close
Gave not a single whisper

I chose a road,
The one that led to the stars,
The one that led to contentment
And the one that gave a faraway hope,
On a blackened day of life.

The moon sat and wondered,
Why my decision ignored him,
I sat and wondered,
Why the moon didn’t respond?

Thus ended this timeless conversation,
That had gone on for seconds on end,
Between two specks of greatness,
Man and Moon

Their sanity or form drifted;
They were emigrants
But never immigrants...

He gazed at the sky in its entire wrath
and at the sea churning below.
The stars nestled above life’s fury
were too far away to shine upon his brow.
If he flew through the tempest of dreams,
his wings might tear and end his flight
And if he dived into the fathomless deep,
He might be devoured by the eternal night.
A thousand voices had whispered
that there was naught in the unknown.
But the world that he was familiar with,
didn’t feel like his own.
He was swept away like a mote of dust,
by the mighty brooms of fate.
And on he flew like a dainty dandelion,
shedding his hopelessness, fear and hate.
Both the storm and his starlit soul
wrestled for endurance...for survival,
The storm died, the soul survived
and he rejoiced at the suns arrival.
The wind had hit him incessantly,
Fragmenting all his weaknesses.
All he was after toil and turmoil,
was a beautiful, hard rock without any recesses.
Long after, lying on the last isle,
like a statue sculpted out of stone,
He was glad that it was him, not the others,
that had received a battering from the unknown.

The earth burned with a fever that wouldn't falter
my actions were influenced by the same,
the red ball came spinning like a glowing orb,
while my bat simultaneously called out its name.

The beads of perspiration tumbled down,
as the force pulled them apart,
the ball bounced once - towards me,
Physics had enacted its part.

Fusions and fissions altogether,
annihilated and synthesized,
thoughts that wouldn't falter,
even if the ball pitched twice.

Vigour and power bloomed within,
the thirst for victory sizzled out,
the fizz turned into an intoxicating gin,
and out came a guttural shout.

The umpire tensed all his muscles
and raised his hands to call me OUT,
my mind was in a tussle,
and all the grief needed a spout.

All that was left was nothing,
my shoes and my name were in vain,
every footstep was more agonizing than a sting,
life was turning me insane.

The earth's fever had died down,
and so had all of it in me,
all my vision turned brown,
and I was wasted.. wasted into the sadness of sea.

I wish there was an eighth day every week,
crammed in between any of the real two,
that I could slip in and out of
If I wanted to.

I wish there was an eighth day every week,
when the world halted completely,
So that I wasn’t compelled to be anybody
except for Me.

You folded me with your beautiful hands
into a tiny little paper boat.
You watched me sail on life’s little streams
and taught me how to stay afloat.

You fixed me with a piece of tape or a blob of glue,
manufactured in the mills of your mind.
After the angry river and its harsh rapids
had made me the victim of their hardest grind.

You helped me flow into the sea of dreams,
and made sure the waves harboured me.
When night fell and my path went astray,
you were the pole star, so bright and pretty.
              
                            *.     *.      *
You were the ultimate lighthouse of love.
YOU were the most charming and adorable person
to grace my memory.

Hats and Hooves and Humming Birds,
Moulded cheese and strawberry Nerds,
Oh, Good Gracious Paper,
You are this poems maker,

The Lion kills, Gryffindor's dead,
the snake bites him, Slytherin lies on the bed,
The Raven caws, Ravenclaw is upset
The badger has a cold, 'Hufflepuff takes him to the vet."

"I am the Lord of the Rings", Says Mr.Frodo
Then Sauron comes out from Mordor
Gollum Screams, "Smeagol the Lord."
Boromir kills Saruman, using a sword

All ends bad, as is bad
Denethor in his house goes mad,
he burns himself and leaves Gondor sad,
Bilbo beats the old took, all because of that footpad

There is havoc, everywhere
Voldemort challenges Sauron to a dare,
Voldemort has the Elder wand,
Sauron wields the ring and jumps into a pond

They duel right there, wand and ring,
Sauron things Voldemort's a dumb thing,
Sauron wins and Voldemort flees
then Sauron boasts about his good deeds

harry's happy but Frodo's sad
and Bilbo is weeping over his lad,
Sams works for Sauron's evil garden,
and pippin lives in a barn with a hen

thank you, oh paper,
This funny poems maker,
unfortunately, I didn't write this poem on you,
I wrote it on a computer screen, nanana poopoo

There was earth on the Earth
and salt in the sea.
There was a bird
serenading in front of a tree.
(A tiny speck of something...nothing)
There were well-spun clouds
and mountains of stone
and then there was the wind
that flew with a moan.
(It grows...there’s darkness)
There was an army scuttling
into terrestrial mounds;
And the crescent moon
on its daily rounds
(It’s living...there’s darkness)
There were horses galloping
and the ground thundering,
There was the sloth
sitting and wondering.
(It’s moving...There’s light!)
There was the river trickling
and the geysers spewing,
there were the monkeys bickering
and the cows mooing
(And then there was me!
The least important being there could be)

It dwindles over the line of infinity
For a moment the world shines,
Illuminating this untimely second,
Of glory, of forgiveness and of life

It with its immeasurable beauty, and matchless game
Is an arrow so pure that nature bows
All of darkness and shadow withers
Every crevice and crack lights up......

Where only the wind speaks
The messengers of god,
Hit with its first show of tranquility,
Earn eternal freedom for a moment in peace

Yet, This spell so beautiful and serene,
So enchanting and magnificent,
Is a flower of hope,
It passes away…..

Far away, its falls
Under the line of infinity,
Its last hope flickers, yearns to exist
And Nature rules……

If I am the mirror image you desire,
Then I’m a phantom that’ll feed your fire...
...If I am the  object you’ve acquired,
Then I exist and will find the pyre.

Fire. The devourer. The dictator.
Earth. The cosmic carpet. The shapeshifter.
Water. The liquid of many guises. The Unyielding.
Air. The neighbor. The stranger. The infiltrator.
Space. The habitat of substance.  The Ultimate void.
And then poetry, the masterpiece of Thought.
The Great Imitator.

I was carried by an invisible force,
aboard the train of wanderlust.
No one told me to get down, to get off
because the only inhabitants of the station
were blankets of mental dust.

The train bore me far away,
to realms that were in their making.
Realms of wonder and splendour
and realms of utter confusion
that were slowly disintergrating.

It travelled along an endless track
that kept vanishing from behind.
The fear of getting lost didn’t leave me,
the shadow of loss swallowed me.
Would I ever be able to get back?

I looked out the window
and saw the worlds coalesce and separate.
Where these lands a remnant of the past,
a figment of the future or an invasion
of the present in a form I didn’t know.

If my consciousness was being sought
by anyone who wasn’t lost,
they would find it, sitting and moving,
struggling  and jumping and travelling
in the train of thought.

Alas! The trees haven’t moved.
The earth still binds them with the cordial chains of time.
Alas! The trees haven’t moved.
They still stand motionless - majestic and sublime.

The sentinels of their own life and fate,
only their manacled heart-beat neither yours nor mine,
they do not feel the frost and pain -
it’s numbed by the coolness of the worlds colourless wine.

When the silence screams from places unknown,
they silence it with wicked song and rhyme,
filled with lust for natures aid
and Filled with lust for a more peaceful time...

Though their crown succumbs to axe and blade
and their life fades from green to grey,
Their throne, their roots will stay undisturbed
and bear a courageous kingling another day.

Be glad! The trees haven’t moved.
For then our life will be a ocean full of danger.
Their peaceful wrath, waking from slumber,
will drown us and allow no well-known stranger.

But also feel unfortunate!
Because they will walk when we stand still
In the cabinets of memory.
They will walk when our footprints
are washed away by rain and sea.

I used to take cover under my mother’s  umbrella,
when I was small and my heart was big
I used to seek solace in her natural warmth,
when nature unleashed its turbulent jig.

I used to gaze at her tiny, natural, colourful sky,
and peek seldom at the real one;
I used to let her hand caress my tousled hair
and make sure the winds actions were undone.

I used to stomp with my little feet
and watch the droplets go flying by.
I used to let the startling waves crash against me
and feel the warmth in my body die.
But then a hug from her would invigorate me
and the cold would flee into the sky...

....Suddenly I leapt into the storm,
Into the fury of the deafening rain.
Not two minutes had it been and I wanted to
be under her umbrella again.

when I walk in the mountains
I feel really small
not the kind of small that destroys you
like an avalanche destroys trees
or makes you want to disappear
or be dispersed by a breeze
I feel like the earth's little child
like a sibling of the bees -
the delectable nectar of existence
always within reach
I feel like a little stream
leaping down rocks with ease
I feel a little too good
treading the landscape of peace