Life is a list of expectations .
Each day has a special intonation.
One day for your birth
The other day for your death.
The day you leave
No one will believe
That your life was just an illusion
Has anyone got this confusion?

Life
                                                            ­    has
            a
                       funny
     way
                                           of
                                  
                                ruining

      
                                                      Lives.

i recognize
this place,
it reminds me
of how
our love story
began
and ends

To cope up with poetry, is like crossing on traffic railroads or climbing towering mountains, isn't it? But I chose poems (which only few writes) because I love rhyming and mingling words, and I want to unveil what kind of art I have been hanging on my galleries up to these years.

It is ridiculous, right? When you still wander upon the woods of confusions that you cannot pen your words in a better manner, yet you have already written a lot.

Stirring some cups of coffee of thoughts on my mind, somehow is arduous to do, but I am still so thankful I have best readers like all of you.

Poetry is where I am into. I think in order to write. I write in order to learn.

as a kid
there's nothing
like wasting away inside a tiny
room
sitting on the backrest
of the couch
looking out the window
and seeing her
tread through the rain

a red umbrella covers
her.

Mother

she's going back
to the liquor store

There are parts of me that I am still learning to accept.
It's in the roots of my hair,
Embedded under my skin,
It darkness my knees,
On the bridge of my nose,
Rolls off my tongue
To the alignment of my toes.
And as I grow, they too grow with me.