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.

She stared back at me,
with a sneer and asked,
"Did you really think
that was you,
in the looking glass?
Those wild curls so lush,
and brows archly brushed
a nose so fine,
a quality it possessed!
The grace that she spent
in every silken way she went
it left woman of the old gaping
and the young men,
breathless.
And you with your spots,
with a nose, such a blot!
Hair that is smitten
to the wind as aimless!
Limbs so undefined,
nary a skirt I can find,
that would hide those wide hips
and body - shapeless!"

And then I took a bow
before a man and
couldn't fathom how
his presence I could digest
I was repelled so - by him.
But the looking glass wasn't far,
at every turn I saw a mar
and gave up my choice
to see
...
into a looking glass.

With a steaming mug of coffee in hand I watched:
the sun fall, the wind shiver, the leaves stand and land roll,
the birds swing, yellow beams dance,
and people stride in woollen warmers.
She plucked a flower in fool bloom,
then ambled away with a bamboo basket.
The clink of steel whistled through the air,
rousing sleep in the grouchy ones
saddled with books and a play toy in hand
walking in step with a grown man.
I walked there once, trying to keep pace
clasping a finger as large as my fist.
His snores now fall softly, circling the room
while I stand by the window,
wearing his shoes.

Its like having a song stuck in your head
that plagues you at the oddest times,
when you forget,
when you forgive,
when you are about to lose your mind.
There are pieces which hollow out,
parts which blare like a horn,
and you whistle a tune,
to cover the blanks,
and keep repeating that song.
You twist the words,
to make it your own,
hum the stretch which lingers,
so much that you breathe in tune.
And you play it over and over
to comfort the oddest hour which peaks,
because nothing really,
is as comforting,
as certainty.
Even that of an annoying song.

I'm letting go.
to be somebody
I don't know yet.

I'm moving on
to greet somebody
I often hear about.

I touched the sky,
twinkled beside a star,
flew by the gushing wind,
to touch down, gingerly.

I changed colors,
shook the frost that held on,
threw on a mantle with
smiley badges,
and battled a storm in spring.

I grew a few thorns,
kept friends at bay,
took a solitary sojourn
reminiscing yesterdays.

but...

now..

I'm letting go
to be somebody
I don't know yet.

I'm moving on
to greet somebody
I often hear about.

The man I love is broken,
my dark secret in the open,
all of me is now
revealed.
Broken stars on a crimson sky
I walked on glass bright as light
towards a shadow I couldn't deny
was a lie.
Fate decreed, I hurt my feet,
and waking up I felt relieved
under the noon time sun
my madness would ebb
and I would set free.
This yearning then
wouldn't leave me trembling
and glowing eyes in the dark
wouldn't make me retreat.
Yet there I go,
the same room again
where windows stand tall,
and he with them,
in moving shadows,
my broken man,
bends his head and stretches his hand
and I stand still,
watching all of this,
while I'm asleep.

I was and will be
ever after,
a story

written by candlelight
in the presence of a kitchen knife,
laying idle, by the ribbons
twirling around chandeliers
and a pink hearts envelop,

telling you of the day,
music played
and I was there
with a smile.

And they all sang,
"Happy Birthday!"

Blank face
stares at a blank page
there was so much to tell
the thoughts whirling in space
within that mind,
confused,
edgy,
but nothing would spill.
If the finger could be pricked,
and blood poured,
its dark mad rush
could exhibit,
the craving contained,
but there was no puncture
that could let out the rage,
and let in air,
that could whistle through the veins
and fill the hollow gut
that remained.

Closed,
there is twilight,
and my hand is held tight,
the moon sings a lullaby
and there is a scent of promise
heavy as the air.

Open,
there is brilliance
but my palm is held open
the wind is missing
and the sound of music
comes to an end.

And I blink,
once, twice
to the ever changing
afterlife.

My constant.
In valleys and cliffs,
with a cigarette between lips
and a hand wrapped around swirling spirits,
my ever after happy end.

By my side, holding hands,
in the most starkest of moments
when I make outlandish demands
the only one who can know
the things I whisper when in shadows.

My eternity, my right hand,
the ace up my sleeve,
the winning hand,
my confession box,
my witless friend,
the most cursed,
my marching band.

When confronted by truth
my resilient spine,
I am my own ******
valentine.

There is a transient moment
most profound
and necessary.

It is that line
which borders the sky
and the water,
the umimaginary,
factual,
tangible edge
of reality and perception,
past and future,
mirror and reflection,
which develops insight.

A transient, effervescent moment,
of delight.

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.

No burden is as heavy
as the regret borne
of not learning
how to let go.

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.

Flitting
color
mesmerizes
and
they
watch,
the
glorious
flight

unknowing
the
ugly

before
butterfly.

we are duly taught
when moved from one
to another spot
what was will longer be
and soon things will turn
to memory
and that fondness
will gladly lurk
on the shoulders
which will soon shirk
what was then,
but isn't now
it is the way
things turn about

irrevocably.

Too many voices in my head
too much noise when things are said
and I struggle from word to word,
to string together all I've heard
but they're relentless, these thoughts of mine
have no reason to subside
and so they scream, and mutter, and breathe
their putrid venom into me,
seeping down like angel dust,
into my soul and veins and thus
wanting me to give in, or rise,
how am I to know
when my mind is in flight?
from rage to silence,
from passion to death
I am seeing, and feeling
the mirage is to burst
and in a million little pieces
I have been blown apart,
in a million little places
i have been set to blast

if only, if only I knew
how to make this stop.

Blinded.
Glaring golden eyes (beam)
serpent -tongues murmur
(slitherrry, sliperryy)
careless mistakes.

Venom drips drop drop
Forked mind (confused)
Bend in, burn out
(flipetty flappetty flop)

Crocodile
tears soon run dry
enemy –turned-friend
(back-stab me)
I’ll bend.

I'm afraid
I shall never be that butterfly
which burst into flames of color
and was adored every hour
it lived its flitting life,
I am too wise,
to know I'm the caterpillar
that crawls through nature
in pain, it is never vain
to realize,
the day it is most treasured,
is the day when it dies.

I washed my plate
thrice I rinsed
I couldn't stand
the thought
of leaving behind
any trace
of food.

I want a clean plate.

Impish foam that rests
on the brim of a thing delicious
to fade away in one gentle swipe
of an invisible tide.
The crusty bits that sweeten
a bitter concoction
drown under the burden
of a dark swirling mesh
but remain a heady delight.
Stirred within a diameter
is trouble with joy
and laughter unrestrained.

Sipping a hot mug of coffee incites
thoughts, that vagaries of life
and coffee, are perchance,
the same.

Check
your
settings!
Thoughts
can
be
a
pop-up
blocker,
denying
yo­u
a
new
window.

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.

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.

It is like watching a plane land
while you're in it,
by the wings,
seeing the end drawing close
and feeling the ... feeling,
in the pit of your stomach
in the edge of your toes
and you clench,
well, everywhere,
bracing yourself
(as if that'll help)
for a rough landing
that'll shake you,
startle you,
but what you really fear
is what comes after the jolt,
for it is momentary,
sometimes absent
(when artfully done)
but sometimes
the jolt only begins
the turn for things
to go worse
and go wrong
and for the ground
to slide from beneath you
and for the plane
to slide and fall...

It is like watching a plane land.

broken lines
in my palm
I conceal

show my path
lay out boundaries

but,

I join the lines.

I took a detour,
gave in to the allure
of the bending road
half in shadows
beckoning.

Full bloomed flowers draped
the ivy that fell from the sky
surrounded by mystic elements of
a natural life,
I thought this is the place to be.

And I walked away
from the constant to the foretold,
from the legends to the myths,
wanting to relish
the myriad phases
that in a darker place
exists.

But, it was a detour,
not my decided road,
for though the journey
is what they talk about;
they are mostly, lost souls.
I am for that one goal
I set off to first find,
I came off the detour,
to leave the glory behind.

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.

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

You don't hear
the shrill screams
inside my head,
or hear the broken music
box I haven't set aside.
You don't see the shadows
flit pass my walls,
or bear the pinch of
broken dreams under your feet.

You only know of the colors
I wear on my sleeve,
and the aches I confess
of the things that keep me
from sleep.

You only tell me
what I must, should and can,
without knowing the doors
I pray will remain closed behind.

You only see the smoked mirrors
I show you, because some
truths are kept from you,
And I'm kept distant,
from you.

give me a memory,
any memory,
where you are happy,
and it can mask,
the worst thing ever said,
the meanest thing ever done,
the crudest thing you ever saw
and I'll not write anymore.

Let us dream
how else does one tolerate
reality?
And dream to not aspire
but to deny
every falsehood promised
for eternity.
And dream so large
and so long
that you

almost

forget...

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 is nothing but the swirling amber
rising and falling like a sleeping ogre’s chest,
numbing the sense of trepidation that swims about
aimlessly, catching the beacon of the lighthouse.
In the dark we dispel all our inhibitions
for who is wont to notice?
But in the face of their stares and processing brains
we stumble, afraid of them knowing
what to us is unknown.
And whilst we play this game of cat and mouse
there is the swirling amber, charming the enduring soul
with its potion of surreptitious logic
and potent healing magic,
we drain.

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.

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

true
love.

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.

Why do we catch fireflies in jar?
Why do we carry a net and chase
butterflies?
Why the need to capture beauty
then gawk while it dies
seeps away like the dwindling pleasure
which gets replaced by something wild.

Why do we blind ourselves
from our intricate dark side?
Why do we attempt to disguise
our malice under the robe of
the 'civilized'
when we are id, we are insane
we are the cutters
we are the chained
and we drown while we bury
and we crumble while we push

in layers and layers we carry
the agonizing truth

monsters we made, in mirrors we see
evil isn't another, is it underneath.

It whips you in the face
or carries a flighty leaf
like the tide of the wind
it varies

sometimes enshrouding
is its twisted volition
aftertimes a soothing caress
most times, which comes
amidst the debris
of guilt
and trepidation
and fear

and this is not a measure
of Richter but the abyss,
which is carved deep
and has the potential
to acknowledge
the possibility
fervently,
that this is not
an existential anomaly.

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.

my knees have grown
a little brittle,
my feet,
a little worn,
my elbows hurt
from tucking them in
tight,
my neck hurts
from not holding it
right,
my shoulders ache
for the burden,
is sometimes just too great
my heart is weary
and often
forlorn,
my soul is silent
I think it too
feels that,
it can't bear anymore.

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

There
are no
words
I can rote
to eloquently convey
what I can
with the rise
of one finger
whilst on the stage
under the spotlight
and the silhouette'd audience
titled.

The finger trembles
in the dark.

The silhouettes blurs
after the spark.

Someone smoked a pipe too long
and dark tufts filled the cyan expanse,
then they rumbled and thumped too loud
startling us below, enough to crane our neck
and look above.
They must have sneezed,
and excuse them please,
for the rushing wind could have stolen
their mumbled apology.
And amidst the puffy mist,
there could have been adrift,
a downy, now wet, handkerchief.

bludgeoned to believe
in ever after stories
by the endless yarn of lies
I wear in pride,
eyes shining in glee
wondering...
when does the mirror break
and the witch call an end
to my dark fairy tale?
I shall referee,
just to gainsay, I'm afraid,
that I continue
to leap
from ledges.
And flee.

collected flyer miles
for 27 years of
to and fro
from distant places
and the many faces
who sat by me
during the journey

memories remain collected
the smiles, gestures and hugs
all together in one coupon
ready to be redeemed

I'll be moving on now
away from the small world
to see to places, new faces
into the unknown.

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

It takes them a while.

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 doesn't take much
for a smile to turn mocking,
or much time for betrayal
to come knocking,
or much effort for trust to slay
and dig up past mistakes.
It doesn't take much
for friendships to sour,
for the bell to chime and
ring the end to happy hour.
It doesn't take much at all
for memories to be mistaken
and for all those severed ties
to be called all but forsaken.