You are rare, an iridescent coral reef
of uncommon beauty , emerging
out of ocean blue, with an appetite for sun;
he has fallen for you at the first sight.
I am the setting sun, with stunning
rays of praise that keep you thrilled,
for the while I last, and would make you
                                           crave for more,
Darling, listen
story of our love is immortal for this reason:
it would be a burning, searing pain,
not destined to be lost in fulfillment,
it would make the stars, brimming
with emotions, sob, sob till it all dissolve,
shedding light, like drops of   hot wax,
till the candle lasts and the wick fights
                                              the dying of the light.

If I could fly back to that strip of life
When showed the church clock three forty five
I held her hand together walked to the green lawn
Baffled how I would ever live without her alone!

He was given a notebook
to write whatever on its page
quite some years it took
before it came of age.

All these years he kept writing
he thought it was his everything
to him mattered what really
was no page should be left empty.

When he exhausted the last page
he found he had missed a lot to say
there remained unsaid at each stage
that he put off for another day.

He needed one more page in the notebook
to fill it up with what was till then unsaid
but the rule did not permit a re-look
no provision for a revision was made.

Taking Devil's help
I lock my self
in the shelf

The monk with his disciples was traveling by car
The journey was long and arduous
When with a screech stopped it a flat tyre
Causing them a break from the rush!

The monk was upset with still a long way to go
Halted by this unforeseen obstacle
When caught his eyes the river in calming flow
Upon her an island’s spectacle!

He asked his disciples to find him a boat
For he had some time in his hand
The island beckoned him alluringly remote
With its forest and the silvery sand!

With one of his disciples he took the boat ride
Soon his feet touched the green of the forest
He felt the pleasure of being on the other side
For a stroll and in the green a little rest!

Walking some way they came upon two men
So emaciated their ribcages jutted out
Sitting under a tree couldn’t be said for what gain
The monk thought them mad men no doubt!

He made a coughing sound expecting them to rise
For those men seemed lost in a trance
Their spell thus broken they opened their eyes
And rose to their feet that instance!

They bowed to the monk in the most courteous grace
With folded hands and stooped head
No distress of being famished showed on their face
They stood tall and ***** instead!

The monk asked what the duo was doing there
In that forest wasting out their day
Beneath a tree sitting nakedly bare
It was not meditation’s right way!

A Guru they must get and follow his creed
Must chant the secret hymns taught by him
There are rituals to follow rigid paths to tread
God cannot be reached by mere whim!

To all his words they nodded humble and serene
Not an utterance once escaped from them
Remained bowed in respect their frames frail and lean
In the forest two seekers without name!

It was time for the monk to get back to the car
For remained for him still more mile
The island and its forest would soon recede far
In his lifespan some memories awhile!

While boarding the car he saw an incredible sight
And it broke the hard shell of his pride
Those two men were walking in the sun’s failing light
Across the river without the aid of a boat ride!

Corners.
Corners.
Everywhere I look there are corners.

Windows,  no windows.
No doors.
No brightness, no light.
No escape in sight.

Cornered, I feel cornered.
They're pointing fingers.
They are. Who are they?
Who are they to tell me,
To sit between corners.

Corners, I feel cornered.
They are trying to erase every memory,
Making me lose track.

Corners, around the cornered.
When you feel cornered,
Look carefully,
There might be a crack.

I rather sit in a coffee shop in a small town, and sip on my latte and look at the pretty people walking by.
I rather dance in the rain with my friends then hide out from one of the simplest pleasures of life.
I rather have a deep conversation with someone about life, death and the passion that lie with themselves.
I rather go to a little joint to see a up and coming band, because I know one day this band is going to make it big.
I rather get roses on random days, than get roses on the one day of the year that people actually care.
I rather sit in my room at 2 am in the morning burning candles and drinking tea and reminiscing on my life.
I rather be alone sometimes, and not be bothered.
I rather be well known for the poems I write, the books I publish, the opinions I produce, and the mind behind it all.
I rather have something to live for, something to give me a purpose to breathe air, I rather have that reason be myself, because what lies ahead of me is hope for a tomorrow.