I have been cruel
and unrepentant,
and on my knees
yearning for certain
benevolences
people promised
good people
get.

There is I suppose
a logic
to why it is not so tragic
I don't get when I didn't give
'cuz I was too busy
wanting
the best.

My conscience woke
when I stabbed a man
in the heart with barb
again.
After hours or regret
and notes that confessed
I burnt it down for I knew
nothing changes.
I am still
upset.

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."

Buzzzzz! It rang,
loud and shrill,
startling me from that
comfortable sleep-phase;
where everything is half-done,
and you're not fully numb
to the prods and distant noises.

Chasing this time table
that has been planned for me,
each day has an agenda,
and each decade gives me a story;
unmet deadlines, lost promises,
commitments and buckets-lists
an archived dream.

Slipping on shoes,
as the door hits my back,
walk into a day a dislike,
a place that leaves me forlorn;
no amount of fairy lights
or frames on the wall can
make a house feel like home.

And buzzzz! it rang again,
jerking me awake,
harsh light of a new sun
slicing through the cold day;
no ego to salvage or pride to soothe,
another the chance to start over,
that was all it took.

I miss our walks in the rain,
when we used to live
in wonder and anticipate
the future, when we used to step
on water and laugh,
happy in that moment
of togetherness
and completeness,
away from the abject world
that poses questions
and answers,
in our own little
wonderland,
seemingly unaware
of the possibility
that things may go wrong,
and conscious of the faith
that great things are to come.

I miss our walks in the rain
holding each other's hand,
only to wriggly free
and skip ahead,
only to hop in merry;
leaving one to watch,
one to wait,
not always together
in battling life's
undue favors of time.

I miss our walks in the rain
for when it poured,
we'd wait,
holding time still
by sheer will,
unafraid;
not of the consequences
but of bearing them,
for isn't that what
the walk was all about?
It was us preparing
to march ahead,
with our head held high
into the storm,
unswayed.

The white noise has direct interface
with the synapses in my brain
making ants sketch across my skin
in a drunken address.
Bellicose shadows raise their fists
and wrap me in flags of color
while merging into a large edifice
with a wide open mouth
and protruding nose.
Wrenching my feet from the baloney trap
go take a round of the mulberry bush
counting the pennies dropped on the ground
by the ones who crossed onward
with the ferryman on the boat.
Footprints on soft mud
thud like batons against a hard thigh
easy to miss but not to be dismissed
they are like camouflaged quarry
in a kept heap of rye.

The shield gets thicker
and the hand that wields it
stronger,
and in foggy nights,
even blind with sleep
the left arm is ever ready

and so easy is the foe
who comes from friend
making reason politely

every gesture turned
words said undone
eyes disguise intent
spies in fellow ones

this is war, the real deal
that is seldom revealed
it is the lone warrior who knows
stories always left untold

Unprecedented

unlike the storm which rages
or the volcano that shudders
before its release,
or the tsunami that warns
like the tornado which
tumults everything about

wild fire is unprecedented
a strike of a match
a careless fuse
an unwarranted gust of wind
spreads a wave so large
it consumes all,
and kills everything.

wild fire, I have inside.

I forgot how to breathe
underwater; serenity
inhale-exhale seemed like exercise
the wheel chairs moving
on white lawns
like exile

life behind lenses not tinted
but rimmed thick; reality check
felt like harsh sunlight

leaving bokeh lights clouding
my judgment
and I grew afraid

of insight - behind clouds
shrouded but certain
the windmills continue to rotate

left - right
left right

Worn shoes
fall apart,
on a road smooth,
the despairing threads
and mended stitches
in pain for tomorrow,
never to claim,
they didn't try,
but to only claim
it is not always
for the strong
to survive.

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.

thoughts flit through my brain
gathering wool,
getting stuck
in the crevices
absorbing sense
that occasionally leaks,
and I end up
writing poetry.

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 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.

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

in shades and hues
they come,
from the horizon,
before the sun rises
they run,
in a frenzied fashion,
after the sun set
they settle,
with no remorse
as if the day wasn't
as nettled,
as the night before.

there was no past
to remember,
and forget,
there is no future,
to long for,
and wait,
there is no present,
to consider,
and let go,
there is nothing
to honestly think about
anymore,

yet when you walk past,
my eyes wonder,
did you hear my desire
in the sigh of breath
that left my lips
and make their way
to yours

you make no sense,
but you are fire
and I've been cold
for far too long.

Twirl the ring around my finger
when I flip you the bird,
hold a halo and a forked tail
in crowded comfort.
Rose-tinted eyes blink in mystique
when the alluring panther
roars in defeat.
Defiance is heady;
a few pounds of snow,
am lost in sensation
when you pound the door.
There is no faces; but places and noise
and few open cases left on the floor.
Roll a bottle till it clinks on the wall,
when I lie in pieces,
before I take the fall.