Stymied
by the crosses I wore
on my back
while I tried
to wade past
bright lights.
It got notice,
and I remembered
the battles
all over again,
but I got stymied
because,
this was my chance
to move on
to the other end.

I have a coffee machine
which spurts and groans
in the morning,
while I sputter and grunt
in wait
for the liquid that
dissipates
the clouds which surround
my brain.

It has a faulty handle,
and needs to be held just right.
I learnt after two stained washcloths,
and three fingers
which turned pink
on sight.

It also has a button,
which turned on sometimes
shoots sparks,
I feel the current,
(I can see the ****** thing!)
but do nothing,
will do nothing,
till it dies.

It has been months
with my machine,
but I like this routine,
of it and I,
I have learnt a lot about myself
about my discomfort with change,
about my unchanged need for comfort,
about the degree of my laziness
and about how I'm willing to
make things last a while,

I have a machine that teaches me lessons
all before I have my first cup of coffee,
I mean, what more could I ask in life?

The vacancy
within my body
giving room
to laaazzzy
living

I need residence.
I want it to say,
"Occupied!"

smile;
stretched far,
felt deep,
without effort,
in much speed,
across layers
of emotion, cognition and soul,
in effect after,
and before,
true confession,
quiet storm,
honorary silence,
dishonest calm,
fragmented,
prosaic,
maimed,
the untold story,
that love game.

It is in in stillness
that chaos loomed,
reaching for the edges
in varying degrees,
mounting that peak
of every climbing emotion,
in stillness,
it is like streaks
of the most glaring hues,
subdued; weakened,
uncouth.
Do not be fooled
by the stillness.

I have no reason
no reason
to claim,
I know the secret
the secret
to joy,
But I hear the mystery,
the mystery
of love,
Is to forgive and be forgiven
be forgiven
for distrust,
So I know my lacking,
my lacking
of love,
Is my yearning to pursue,
to purse,
my joy,
When I should be empty,
be empty
of claim

Confess
                     in
                    the
                    tongue
                    of
silence
                   devoid
                   of
                   your
                   lips
                   a
kiss

true
love.

His sigh stirred the leaves
and they played near my feet.
Every tremble of the wind
sent my way hints of lemon.

We sat there, next to each other,
in wait for something to happen.

My hair stirred, restless,
and his feet pumped and swayed
In silence, we danced,
came close and drew away.

The space between was quivered
every atom charged with need,
like two ends of a magnet draw near
we feared - the possibilities.

His fists remained on his knee,
my hands held each other,
when the bus came he got up,
and I watched him go quietly.

He turned then, after a beat
and our eyes said the same,
this would have been an inevitable story
and no, there was no need for a name.

I tumbled down a hole,
and found a barren land
ridden in a mist,
so thick,
I can't see my stretched hand.

There is no sound,
but that of my wary feet
trying so hard to find steady ground
while I step over debris,
so jagged,
I can't stop my ankle from turning wrong

The sky looks pale,
almost uncaring,
like it too withstood too much,
and time lies stoic,
un-moving,
it seems to have lost its two hands.

I feel no presence
of a lingering soul
but only of doubt,
like a constant shadow,
that I'm in a demesne
of someone else's dream
that has been left
long forgotten
and I am, now,
to seek.

So
simply
will
I
slip
words
that
rhyme
like
down
a
palm
would
ice­.

The flowers
don't change colors
with seasons,
that bold yellow
mocks my instinct
to adapt
while it willfully
dances
daily.

Like the molten embers
of a dying fire,
the last crumbs of a meal,
we give ourselves
in appreciation of  a lie;
the cold and hungry.

For the makers don't always
choose wisely,
and the survivors lose patience
to keep seeing beyond horizons
and find only the salty grace
of the waves,
building sand castles gets tiring
when all that is  written
gets swept away.

The comfort is dwindling
that of a candle in the storm,
wavering,  unsteady,
unlike the ashes which consume,
then linger,
a potent reminder
that even hope dies,
even restraint ends.

Sometimes it is the delusion
of a happy ending
that keeps us alive.

When I stand on rooftops
I tend to scan my options;
hard concrete, soft bushes,
or the corner site of construction.

On the highway in a cab
I calculate the force of momentum,
passing trucks that could easily crush
any object that rolled out in random.

On the shore of a noisy sea,
while others frolic I look to the line
that always beckons so sweetly,
it's the end what I think to find.

Passing trains and sharp knives,
the blunted razor in my shower,
bags of plastic in my house
the thoughts come at any hour.

It never really does go away,
the desire to shut my eyes and forget,
but like a game of cards, I place my hand
to hear my like pulse beat, " Not yet."

they're beginning to itch
these new clothes that I've donned
making me seem normal,
as one of them,
the paint on my face
no longer forlorn

I can feel it writhe and move
inside my head,
hiss in displeasure
wanting out,
wanting to spread
it is done with its leisure

the monster I carry
that green eyed devil
its been waiting to long to strike
and ooze will my blood
dark, clotted bile
and with it I'll purge
all these lies.

No, I'm not afraid,
I was just confused,
while waiting,
that I could be one of them
I am never, I will never be
I reside only in the sidelines
with a butcher knife to parry.

the play of light and shadows
on swinging plains of green
a whole lot of meaning they carry
as they beam into the stream
that bids hello and goodbye,
simultaneously to birds flying high
the sliver of white on pools of blue
like diamonds that are found anew
and all this I watch,
and feel a clench,
for my heart knows,
what it is to be content.

drawing circles
on a window
trying to capture
slipping drops
of rain:
to save them from
falling to an end
or keeping them
on an edge to fade?

either way,
they will go away -
life passing in play.

Taking
off
my
shoes
as
they
wore
off
when
I
took
this
wrong
route.

It is after the fight,
and the other members
of the family,
ones without a heartbeat,
go quiet,
and there is a silence,
hesitantly found
discomfiting;
for we are used to
the bickering,
the nasty snarls
and grunts
snorts of disgust
and the occasional giggle,
always in confidence,
it is then that I realize,
it is only home,
when there is noise.

Only the pale smoke rests
dense in the air,
no sign of the night
that heard screams of despair

charred wood carries
memories of the struggle
when embers flew,
hot and glowing,
and fire burnt anew.

the silence falls like rain now,
heavy and cold,
erasing stories,
erasing tales
of what happened
the night before.

Silence
the
nerves
churns
mutters
and
calls,
murmurs
whispers
scr­eams
and
falls,

with
silence.

broken lines
in my palm
I conceal

show my path
lay out boundaries

but,

I join the lines.

It is fear that chained my feet,
and here I thought it was my past,
when it was my future made me afraid,
how foolish, knowing that
it is only on me, and not destiny,
that I lost faith.

It won't take me long
to rouse from my sleep
and awaken.
But I'd be leaving behind my dreams,
I'd be leaving behind
a part of me.

They won't write songs about me,
they don't know enough.
There won't be monuments or effigies,
no plaque with my name,
they won't remember.

Immortality some crave,
and eternity they long for,
to make the earth always has a trace
of their lineage, bloodlines and all that.

I don't want to be humbled,
I am quite proud you see,
of what I've left behind,
my legacy.

I'll be the last memory before they stop,
the last break of smile on a weathered face,
after years and years have gone by,
they'll think of me, fondly,
when they look back at their success and glory,
like a quiet shadow in the corner,
will I stand, in sublime wait,
to be known as the one who made them
stand taller till their dying day.

I don't like my poems anymore,
they don't quite have the same punch,
but then neither does my body rock from within
it is all even and humdrum.
Writing is not easy when there is nothing churning,
burning, singing and crawling under my skin
waiting to pounce, leap onto a blank page
uncontainable, unrestrainable,
using words that don't even make sense.
There is no furious typing trying,
no doodles or markers on the edges of my book,
I just sit and stare and think,
and that's the worst of it all,
when I'm at the brink of logic and reason,
I endeavor to write a poem.
Disaster. Failure. Best forgotten.

I wish to get lost sometimes
just to have someone find me,
then I can, in a different way,
re-tell my story

I feel the rumble
of the groan
tremble through your body
sending shivers
delightfully
down my spine
while I arch my neck
and ****** my face
while you spill
your desire,
coaxing heat
to spread through my veins,
the feel of rain.

It start in my ear
leading to a shuffle
of my thighs
the sudden focus
of that one touch
centered
pinpoint precision
and the rush
which spreads across my body
in shivers that break out a sweat
cold and hot
fire and chills

the aftermath is only
the lingering sensation
while sounds return
to thumping of my heart

nothing compares to the rise
the mighty rise
of something as potent
as coming alive

I tried really really hard
but it just wouldn't stop!
I crushed the corners tight,
thinking it would hold it back,
but I couldn't,
they still slipped
and fell like they always did
warm and painful and soft
leaving a trail in their wake
of dirt and destruction and heartbreak,
and it disappeared,
with only faded tracks
to lead astray
anybody who wouldn't see
how I tried really really hard,
but still couldn't stop.

Smile
and make merry,
fool the world enough
to not worry
about being polite.

It takes them a while.

enough
with the paltry sum returned
to all the pleading I did
with a bowl in my hand
I walked;
shiny eyes watching,
seeking, craving,
while they all walked past,
without a glance;
some with pity in their eyes.

enough,
with the clanging church bells
beckoning those who fell
arousing feeling of hope,
silly girls throwing away coins
in wishing wells.

enough,
of waving my hand around,
decorated to appeal,
these cobbled streets
I called home
will never my shadow feel

enough
of this disappointment
making way through my body
that hollowness,
that shallow hurt
of knowing
somethings aren't meant to be.

enough.

in the darkest hour
there is the longest dream
but if only we could ever remember
how it ends,
it would seem,
there wouldn't be the need
to sleep.

I had a star (bright!)
which dimmed a little
some nights
I may have used it too much
on the twenty something wishes
I had listed (such a rush!)
Once the wishes started
to come true
not all (of course)
but a few
my star disappeared from sight
I dare not think it died
or that I may have killed
(noooooo!)
the star that had
made me wish.

The last word was of the rain
and it soothed my aching heart,
I felt its pain, when it shattered
to bring two lovers apart.

there are a thousand things unsaid
in the silence that follows,
when I tell you I'm upset,
and you leave me feeling hollow

after the countless ways I tried
to make you feel better
the comfort that I shared,
wouldn't have been, with another

a hug was all it would have taken
for me to feel like I'm not mistaken
to wear my heart open on my sleeve,
oh please just make me believe.

to be continued...

let me write two lines
which leave you blinded
in my grief
of not having ever written
something more potent
and lengthy
and in those two lines
you may read
my entire, complete
and exhaustive story.

In the dark
I fear the unseen.
In the day
I see,
what I fear.

Is there any other drug
as potent as love
to transcend the boundaries of time,
and to ever match the shine
of a lit up Christmas tree
and spark like the silver strike
of a match that lights the sky
and the universe weeps
for you and me
who ache for an ounce of love
or enough to tell a story.

Sweat pooled
above my chewed lips
while my ears turned pink,
toes curled
inside my shoes
sweaty fists
opening and closing.

Flat eyes watched
and waited
while I grew deaf
with the silence

Two cups of coffee I had,
and 4356 steps I took,
just to catch another glimpse
while I passed by you.

Planned what to wear the next morning,
and of topics that you understood,
an anecdote to gain your attention,
pink lipstick to hold that look.

Scrubbed my palm dry roughly
to have nothing between your skin and mine,
because when you shook my hand,
my heart fluttered, and did not calm
for a very long time.

You are not mine, will never be,
but when you gaze into my eyes, I see
what my life would be like with your beauty,
so those 3 minutes a day are more than worthy.

Like ghosts they haunt,
silent but present,
eerily felt
strongly sensed
when remembered

the words, gestures
come rushing back
hazy faces
cold places

you think
you've left it behind
walked forward
have let it go

to only know
one blink is all it takes
one tear the only witness
one moment to completely shatter
to be afraid

you've made a mistake.

There are many ways to home,
some I've taken,some not known,
there are things I've left behind,
pieces of what was once mine.

In places, things and people;
carriers of my past,
there are questions I answered,
some answers took me far.

I had voices tell me things,
some nice and some withering,
in the silence they often got lost,
mine eventually losing its plot.

Funnily while the world is round,
life doesn't usually come around,
in its tumble and toil it's all well made
the mechanism for blinkers to fade

I have now the learned my mistake,
which I made, oh so often,
in my quest for the chosen one,
I left many locks unopened.

Sullen shoes and withered hats,
find revelations in dark corners
like a fairy tale, is also,
only the brave get the honors.

If it is going to be
only a few chosen minutes,
I'll take it.
If it is going to be
only a few times in day,
I'll treasure it.

If I won't have your nights,
your voice deep in slumber,
your waking blinks or
the brush of your smiling lips,
but only,
your naughty grin,
your quick passing touch while you walk past
your easy stops by my desk
your eyes staring into mine for a second longer,
I'll take.

In that second, I'll find my forever.
And if that's the only thing I'll get,
I'll never let it go.

All those stories about love
forget to write about the poignancy
of silence;
of the waking dawn,
muted sunlight,
balmy evenings,
brushes of skin in the kitchen,
over the whir of the motor in the car,
because it is the silence
that carries
the true magic
of ever after.

A galaxy of infinite stars,
the boundless stretch of green,
arms spread wide,
transcending dimensions,
that's how this wait feels.

Not second, or third,
countless chances,
of corrections, overwrites,
and destiny's edits,
let's term it a new beginning
and let go of the fear that
it is only the continuation
of the chapter you hate.

Like the spectrum of color
on every bubble that flies,
let us also look for magic,
in hollow ***** that hold nothing,
but only the reasons
we look for,
to survive.

I have learnt so much from books,
I'm always attached to one.
But as I read them I realise,
they've learnt so much from the world.

They've evolved with the world,
in their language and punctuations,
used our ways to narrate,
stretched themselves from drama
to horror, business  and science fiction.
They've changed their shape and form
to keep her in their lure;
short, graphic and sometimes still in volumes
they've left us asking for more.

I have learnt so much from books
I'm always attached to one
but as I read them I realise
our lessons are not done.
We are yet to pick up,
the grace of ending chapters,
the art of reading between the lines
and tolerate them cliffhangers.
We are yet to find our balance
between our chosen characters
delve deeper into the complexity
of simplistic and unsaid words.

Beyond all this I've learnt
to keep bookmarks in those pages,
those moments that made my story
different from all others,

I have learnt so much from books,
I'm always attached to one,
It is the one that I am currently writing,
And I need to get to the final chapter

I need to get to the part where I write
She lived happily ever after.

We all need our stars
here and there,
across landscapes
even and jagged.
In the glow
of the buttery sun,
they are hidden,
blinded by the sparkle,
awaiting the sweep
of darkness,
when we seem them out.

But, they are every present,
our stars,
in our days and nights,
always ready to be sought,
found,
and guide.

We all need our stars.

I tore you apart,
Because I wanted to bleed.
I battered you with my stinging tongue,
Because it was my pain I wanted to ease.
I punched and shoved,
Just to make my muscles hurt,
I bit and scratched and screamed
To remember that I could still feel.
Nothing was skin deep,
Not your scars,
Not my rage,
It boiled and sang
Deep within my veins
Like the bloom of the early sun
It only kept gaining way.
Love, so pithy a word
To describe the beast that takes control,
With each ******, jab and rent
It expands and widens its scope.
It makes me bitter and you weak,
It makes me docile and you my rock,
It makes me tremble and you my storm
It makes me destroy and you my toy.
Enslaven we are, to that chemical balance,
Swinging up, down, away and toward.
The pull and push of affection,
The hidden colors, left on simmer.

There are trails of red
like the threads
of a scarlet dress
that reaches for the floor
on the walls
gripping the paint
dragging its name
telling a story
of how things break,
fall apart and come together
to create something
that makes us
all
afraid.

It takes a different kind of courage
to survive hope;
to resist the call,
of the bottomless pit,
to refrain from the comfort
of an always full glass,
to stay put on the ledge
when the wind nudges,
and all things to come
seem worse than what has passed.

It takes a different kind of stupid
to deny despair;
to embrace the notion
of affording second chances,
to echo the chant
that some things are meant to be,
to take solace in knowing
there are better possibilities,
and keep telling your worst
you haven't yet seen the best of me.