Mind is a super computer they say.
It can think of millions of stuff in a matter of day.
From the bombings in Iraq,
to the hurt in my best friends heart.

From the moment its up,
It never stops,
To stop. Blink or breathe.
It keeps running at night.
The subconscious consumes power.
Often leaving the mind tired at the break of dawn.

When it meets people,
it reads the signs at many levels.
Subject of talk,
Body language.
Positivity of the vibes,
The way the person jives.
A handshake.
A wink.
A hug.
A swiftly made jug
It notices everything.

In all this processing.
It accumulates a lot of clutter!
And the mind with all the confusing thoughts,
becomes like hot butter!
Sparks fly like an electronic of fire!
And it needs something to distract it.

What works best is a bit of exercise.
A bit of chattering,
Or writing it all out.

Some find solace in Games or Movies.
Why do they work?
Because they engage all senses,
And make the mind groovy.

Smoking and doping do great too.
But reducing the processors of our mind to grade two!
Hallucinating and dreaming 80% of it.
The mind thinks its being more productive that most of it.

But illusions destroy us further.
Making the mind believe it’s just another wonder.
Wonder though it is.
Using only 10% of it we create,
Science, History, Mystery,
But this wonder has a lot on bate.
If it goes in the wrong direction.
Even thinking too much is an addiction!

Original thoughts are like endorphins to the mind.
Making it jump and do cartwheels inside.
Stimulating discussions are named that way,
Because engaging in one makes us jumpy all day.
It satisfies the mind that,
I have done something constrictive besides,
Whiling my days in sorrow,
and waiting for the morrow.

Mind is like a baby that need attention,
if not given that it runs in all directions.
Mind is a super computer that needs,
the dedication of a programmer.

Be that programmer and feed your mind the right numbers,
And see it become the eighth wonder!

Jug- short for juggle.

The sun falls on the earth.
The flower opens.
Each time.
It faces the storm instead of the warmth.
It faces the fire instead of the breeze.

And each time it wears the scars and tries to bloom.
Each time it opens
Its forced to close up before its time.
Not this time the mind goes.
Bloom inside for another day.

But there are questions to be asked..
There are questions to be answered..
But are there any answers

Will the scars remain?
Will the time come?
Will the sun rise?
Will the bloom be like was imagined?

Everything happens for the good says the heart
And faith follows it.
Bloom for another day
Bloom for another day.

Doctor O doctor.
Can you treat me?
This aweful mind refuses to greet me!

I'v been having trouble controling my thoughts.
Outbursts of creativity and crazy wandering thoughts.

I have work to do and need to concentrate!
But these wandering thoughts have me on stalemate.
The thoughts go here and the mind goes there,
They do not seem to coincide anywhere.

Doctor O doctor can you help me?
Bring these thoughts into order,
and let this mind be.

It concentrates of war,
it concentrates on pain.
None of which have any prospect of gain.

It concentrates on hate,
and the ever growing weight,
Of the population that refuses to wait.

No tollerance or patience,
No thoughts on moulding this nation.
Just fights on rights,
And pointing fingers with might!

No one looks at their duties,
Or the subtle beauties.
Beauty of diversity, and the numerous entities.
That form our great nation.
All it need is unadulterated devotion.

I have work to do and need to concentrate!
But these wandering thoughts have me on stalemate.
The thoughts go here and the mind goes there,
They do not seem to coincide anywhere.

Doctor O doctor can you help me?
Bring these thoughts into order,
and let this mind be.

He looks at me with question in his eyes,
His mouth moving but not saying anything,
His ears cocked towards me like a dog,
Listening attentively.

By holding my hand he encourages me,
His smile making a request.
“I’m here for you, to help you out,
so say what comes to your head.”

I begin with my monologue,
and tell him the tales of my heart.
What has me down and worried,
I share with him un-flinchingly.

He holds my hand when it gets difficult,
as if compassion flows through his veins.
His mind is void of any judgement.
Throughout the narration,
all his senses motivate me.
“Come out with it!” they say together.
To my heart it’s a life boat you see!?

Because in this age of all the blabber.
It’s hard to find a good listener.
A listener who wants to know you better,
And help you out genuinely.

As I finish my tale he hugs me tight,
Letting me know he understands.
And in the future if there comes a bumper,
then I can always hold his hand.

Continuous Guidance
No, not for a child.
For you and me.
How? Why? You can ask.
Mind is a child.
It reacts to people.
It reacts to situation.
It reacts to environment.
It moulds like clay,
And then stays that way.
Not wrong.
But be sure to mould it in the right.
That’s what I meant.
Continuous guidance
like a child.
At every step.
At every feeling.
At every action.
Guidance.
Mind is a puppet too.
Some people play with it.
Some situations play with it.
Be careful then,
A good person turns bad when,
It is played with.
You cannot run away.
You cannot hide.
From your own mind.
It is your baby,
It is your child.
If you don’t care,
Who will?
Guide it.
Watch over it.
But don’t think to leave it.
Forget it.
The mind will be mindless then.
It will hurt, when its hurts.
It will hate, when its hated.
It will be angry and stubborn.
And the people you love will suffer.
If you care for the people you love,
Care for it.
Care for your mind,
So it may learn to care more.

A tiny man walks in the class,
And says, "Hello".
A crowd of staring college kids,
Say "Think its time to go".
"there is no class today,
loads of time to sleep".

Then in comes, Mr. Shrivastava and says
"Guys why do you leave?"
"This is your new faculty,
he will be taking your class.
Be on time from tomorrow,
or from your grades you part".

A look of shock crosses the face,
No one speaks a word.
Trying to let the fact sink in,
And someone in the back says:
"He is weird".

He comes and introduces himself,
Asks our names too.
Out of the thirty six,
how many he remembers,
is a question though.

And on with the class he goes,
Showing pictures on the screen.
Showing logos and *** hole ads,
Untill a hairy scene.
A boy interrupts and asks:
"Whats the meaning of this?"
Wham! goes the teachers heart,
He was not expecting this!
So, he thinks about it for a moment,
no wanting to appear a fool.

Sure he must have taken then pictures from somewhere,
And was acting ****** cool.
He gave us topics,
And shooed us away, saying...
"Lets meet on tuesday!"

Look at how fast they grow,
the last you saw them was in a pram,
and now they are as tall to walk on the ramp.

They were the ones to ask you what to do,
they looked for your guidance when they were two.

look how fast they have grown!
now they tell you what to do when you're on your own.

They look after you like you looked after them,
they are now the guardians that you were to them.

I'm talking about the little ones who used to crawl,
They would make you cry and gauge at your eye *****.

Each of them a menace for all ounce of their breath,
To pull your hair like they were meant to stretch!

They are my baby brothers who I had sworn to protect,
But now they are strong enough to fly out the nest.

I see thoughts scattered on my desk,
By the window on the crest.
I see memories pasted on the wall,
Along with memos and notices from them all.
I see colors making their way,
To the papers crumbling away.
I see the black ink blotted today,
From last years accident, but the scars remain.
I see my desk will its way,
To beckon me to come,
and write my way.

A lovers diary

Yes I am a lover.

I have hearts pasted on my wall,
along with posters of cars and all.
I wake up in the morning to see a balloon heart hanging overhead.
And as the days progresses, hearts pop out of my mouth and my breath.
My perfume smells of soft delicious rose
and people say with my feelings I’m very verbose.

I like to talk about my heart and feelings,
and stuff every word I say with meaning.

On one meaningful occasion I was in the lawn,
when a lazing cat gave out a yawn.
I turn around right then to see,
The queen of love – Penelope.
She was the one all lovers wanted to be,
Me included. Ones I told her “I worship thee!”
She stared at me like I was mad,
And said slowly, “Beauty is a fad.
Come know me, and you will see,
that I’m just another glowing bee.”

Saying this she walked on away,
With me staring broadly,
and my eyes in a sway.

Ahhh! How she looked at me!
with big brown eyes I could only see.
How she moved and she swayed in her grace as a cat,
And sat in her car like lounging on a mat.

What she said, was it true?
or was it just her words turning blue?
coz my mind was blank when she was talking to me.
didn’t seem to hear or tamper a beat.

That day and today.
it’s been a long time since then.
now she is walking towards me again.
But this time I don’t quiver or lose my breath,
as she walks up close after our eyes met.
She smiles at me “you’re a grown-up now”
I smirk back remembering how.
All those years have changed me.
I used to be the love struck teenager,
and felt like I was three.

Now I was big. black. n bold,
With biker gloves and chains made of gold.
My eyes saying I know secrets unsaid,
And if you say stuff I don’t like,
then take care of your head.

I no longer talk about my feelings,
or fill my words with meaning.
people don’t care about what I say,
Now all they do is cover their heads and pray.

No one asks me what’s that secret behind my eyes,
No one knows that I too pray when I hide.
But the one secret no one knows,
Is that I still have a red heart,
that flutters when the winds of love blow,
And how it turns warm and gives out a glow.

If someone would care to ask,
I would talk about my feelings.
Say everything out, of how I changed without meaning.

I have a crush on your words.
How easily they form into a verse.
Falling eloquently on my head,
Making a soft feather bed,
inside the deep chambers of my mind.
Your words jump in there and look divine!

Sometimes dressed in a short pink dress,
Sometimes wrapped in a warm duvet.
Sometimes in a **** sarong,
Making me moan all night long.

Sometimes your words have the power of steel,
dressed in an armour and a shield revealed.
Sometimes on a yellow sun dress,
your words make my heart feel impressed.

Do you know what your your words do?
If there are too many I go in a minute of shock or two.
So use them carefully and lovingly,
Because I have a crush on your words, I do!

Its not easy to be an artists parent,
it needs much more than patience.

An artist is a mass of amorphous air,
that needs understanding and care.

An artists parent who knows that,
becomes a saviour and confidente.

An artists parent who knows that not,
is doomed to a relationship as bare and draught.

Its not easy to be an artists parent,
its needs quiet deliberance.
Of when to push their creative child,
and when to let them be.
Of when their child needs inspiration,
or has a burst of creativity.

An artists parent is observant,
of the ups and downs that the creative faces.
Or when its tired of fighting the world,
and needs tender embraces.

An artists parent has full faith,
even when the artist is lost.
Because that is when the artist looks for anchors,
when his gaseos state finds it not.

Is it easy being a parent to any other?
An engineer or a doctor maybe?
Why? because he follows an age old path,
that was set for him when he was three?

Did you know that an artist is wild,
and has the ability to accept?
To look at you with unjudging eyes,
and understand you to his best.

Like everyone he has two sides,
unlike others he accepts both.
This gives him power,
to create a miracles on the move.

He his sensitive to emotions,
and can feel the mood.
His own and others around.

He knows what you mean,
when you say you feel alone,
because he has known it all life long.

Life walks by,
In an un noticeable blur.
stopping only when there is a pur.

The staring cat has something to say,
stop and see everyday, at all the moments and wonders,
Look at the effect they have ,
Which settles in slumber.

Don't let it settle,  let it assimilate.
Keep void moments for this sake.

To stop and reflect,
To stop and step,
One foot at a time.
Observing the footprints left behind.

Is it too bad to say that I feel empty?
There are no memories of the two weeks that passed too soon.
its like the time had stopped,
Onlu flashes of surprise, laughter, hope, pain, respect, anxiety, guilt, sorrow, worry, gratitude, love, sharing,
Listening in speachless silence.

I feel like sand.
I feel no water inside me.
But I remember water falling on me.
I remember the green glint of the reflected sun.

And then the wind of time blew,
and the footprints lose their memory.

The sand wonders why?
All the water has to dry,
or get soaked up too deep, too quick.
That a thousand ploughs can't reep.
So it holds on against the wind,
But nothing will hold on till the end.

Forgive me if it fades away,
But the soaked water will stay,
To give me cool when the sun gets too hot.

Beginning at the very end,
My life takes a sudden bend.
Tells me it has a secret box,hidden somewhere inside my socks.

To find it i need faith,
and all the hope i have on bate.

I gather whats left of hope.
and tie it with a thick round rope.
making sure of all the lose ends,
nothing on doubt depends.

The thick layer of dust lifts up its head.
to show me positivity sleeping on the bed.
I wake it up and ask his help,
To help me secure my futures belt.

Its looks at me with sleepy eyes,
and asks me why i let all the hope die?
"Now hope will need all the food,
And lock negetivity in the atic to brood.
Only then can I help you make whats left,
And shine the future bright, full of zest."

I coax and cajol postivity with words,
which tickles up the drooping thirst.
Thirst to live life to its fullest
and look at the glass at its fullest
And hope and pray and dance with chardonnay,
Cheering life ahead all the way!

Refference to the "Glass half full theory."

Is it the work of karma of the day,
I tend to push people away.

Is it fear of hurt or hate?
I tend to push friends away.

Am I afraid to walk the mile,
Afraid to have my hands all tied.

Is it the work of life or fate,
I tend to push people in my life away.

I realized only a few days back,
This pressing question that has attacked.

Is it me and the people I attract?
Is it me alone at that?

Is it my aura or something I did?
Is it my past or past life instead?

I don't know the answers or the reasons behind.
If there is someone out there who can help me find.

Answers to these questions and questions they will remain.
Never to be answered, my stones of pain.

Burnt hearts all around,
Not looking, not searching,
Just being around.
Hesitant subconsciously,
Friendly overtly.
But not going beyond.
Burning hearts float.
eventually they will be coal.
Hesitant to be again,
Floating in a union with friends.

A poem is a collection of feelings
locked in very word and meaning.

Its is a place I say stop
And listen to what I say.
coz here is my chance.

As I pour my heart out in a crystal full of words,
You listen and read like a drinker quenching his thirst.
You dont want to read?
Then what are you doing here?
This bar is not open for you sir!

Like what you read?
There is an ocean where this drop comes from,
No river no dam nothing can stop this overflow.
Overflow of feelings and thoughts that only grow.

Germinating like a seed or exploding like a bomb.
When its all that consumes the mind,
Untill its all out there,
All of it be it on even a dried wooden stump.

So read away dear readers,
some of it is what you have thunk!
Yes I say thunk coz I am a poet who feels words
and does not find them a collection of junk!

I rather walk alone,
Taking one step at a time.
Cutting the shrubs that hurt,
And leaving them behind.

I dont want an anchor,
I dont want a stick,
to help me walk,
nor pull me back,
or one that I have to drag.

I want air,
To breath in easy.
Stay there
to give me cool
when the way is rough.

I want a lose braid,
To twine,
without being afraid or scared.

I see people
tangled in a mesh,
with a heavy breath.

I see them.
Climb mountains and
reach peaks
with a heavy heart, torn apart.

Then people ask me.
Why not you?
Make me ask myself,
Why me?

But how can I?
I have seen,
The glass shatter,
The body cry,
The thread die,
And yet,
They ask me to try?