Over 21 years
And a dozen places
Have I found one
I can call my home?

Home.
Where the day starts
With waking up to sloppy kisses
And barks and whimpers

Home.
Where the creak of the swing
And the rustle of trees
Create magic everyday

Home.
With the constant squabbles
Yet there is no place else
I feel I could belong

Over 21 years
And a dozen places
Have I found one
I can call my home?

Not one.
But a dozen.

Ashes and smoke devour the world

As the ground turns a crimson red

Underneath the piles

Of bodies that lay curled

On their death bed

As the world does break

Through massacres and wiles

No tears shed at its wake

In the dark, restricted corner of the library
Find yourself ‘Moste Potente Potions’
Everything you need you will find in there
The most potent potions

Three measures of fluxweed
Two bundles of knotgrass
Stir thrice, clockwise
Wave your wand
Now let it brew

Not yet, it’s far from over
Proceed with four leeches
Two measures of crushed lacewings
Thirty seconds on low heat
Wave your wand
Now let it brew

Three measures of boomslang skin
One crushed bicorn horn
Twenty seconds on high heat
Wave your wand
Now let it brew

One scoop of lacewings
Stir thrice, anti-clockwise
The dark, muddy potion
Bubbling up, slowly

And now, the final ingredient
A piece of the person
You wish to become
Now notice as it takes the color
And taste of his essence

Wave your wand
Now let it brew
For a month, no less

You have what you need
Now drink up lads!
In one hour, however
You will transform back

Make sure the job is done
And in some other’s skin
And should the need arise
You’ll know what to do

In the dark, restricted corner of the library
Find yourself ‘Moste Potente Potions’
Everything you need you will find in there
The most potent potions

I wanted
To write about you
To paint your picture
With my words
To draw your
Almond eyes
To capture the wit
And life in them
To caress your face
Taking you in
With each stroke
To trace your lips
And the love they hold
To refine the subtleties
Of the many struggles
Your face bears testimony to

But you,
Oh you, are the reason
That I'm a poet
Without words
You were to be my masterpiece
My art, without color
For all the words in the world
Can't describe your essence
My love.

Isn’t it amusing
How a blank page
Holds endless stories
Within its being
The unending possibilities
Widows and orphans
Prose and poetry
Hidden underneath
A blanket of colors
Waiting till someone
Draws one out
And gives it life
As the rest venture
Into new homes
Waiting beneath the surface
To be born
So they can breathe life
Into another being

All the blank pages
With untold words
Dancing beneath the horizon

Silences
Haunting my soul
Dancing around
In the dead of the night
Fierce, inviting

Silences
Wrapping me up
Warm against me
Soothing at first
Then burning my heart

Silences
Edging upwards
Etching my skin
With things undone
And words unspoken

In trying to break free
I became more entangled
Craving for words
In these dead
Silences

I was born

When my heart broke

Into ten thousand

Irreparable pieces

I drew strength

From the darkness

When a little light

Seemed unimaginable

As fear clawed it's way in

My words spun around

Defining the blackness

I couldn't even see

When pain ripped me open

I spilled out feelings

I didn't know I had

Beautiful, sad

Till they became

My reason to breathe

A poet was thus born