keen eyes scan around,
for the mystery concealed;
unseen but right here!

her deep purple lips,
sunset's hues enhance the pout;
promised night's invite

Foaming sunlight makes love
                 with the tender purple leaves of mango trees,
light crafts a crust of luminescence,
                  over the profusion of yellow and blue blooms,
avenue trees vie with each other to  hold forth
                  their  flowers on sun's water fall of light to bath.


Evening doesn't show any sign of waning
                   the ebullience  the day had sowed in the world,
"ANANDA" though unspoken as a word, aloud
                    is heard by  inner being, making everyone rejoice,
living and nonliving seamlessly join in,
                    and swim in the swelling  waters of force of life.
past invisible floats gently to the present
                  flows towards a sea of tranquility crossing nights.

Whatever happened to the moments
we lived for
the moments we lived from
electrifying lives
currents of passion
high voltage that knew no resistance

what do I have to do?
to feel the surge
to feel the spark
to feel alive again?

Is it in the tomes?
Is it in the songs?
Do the muses hold it in the walls?
Is it inside of me?

Searching for the switch
to send me back to passion
To make me feel charged again
to make me feel in charge again

I am always so glad when I find another girl who writes love poems about women.
I get so tired of watching romances that tug at my heart....if I imagine I am the man.
Of reading books and finding that the plot revolves around obtaining a boyfriend.
Of listening to songs of love and heartbreak that I know were written about men.
I'm sick of knowing that it's more of an achievement to have a boy than it is to love a girl.
I'm sick of reading magazines and flipping past half of the articles- "8 Things Guys Notice About You Instantly" and "Make Him Hot For You".
I'm sick of being hidden.
It wears on you. Nobody ever talks about it.
Why does nobody ever talk about it?
I'm sick of knowing that if I were a boy, I would have been with many of the girls I've loved, would have been forgiven for more flaws, would have been seen so differently.
I don't want to be a man. I don't want to love a man.
I don't want either to be expected of me.
And honestly, I don't want to lose to a man.
But I know that that will be happening to me for the rest of my life, and so I swallow my pride.
And I watch other movies. And I write my own stories. And I sing my own songs. And I don't read magazines.
And I give everything I can to the girls I love, and hope that everything from me will mean more than something from a boy.

Stop trying to remember his scent, he smelled like summer and reminds you of the time he made you laugh so hard, you snorted out milk on that dead, hazy day.

2. Don't waste your day trying to decipher what colour his eyes were, it'll only remind you of the galaxies and constellations that you once saw in his eyes

3. Stop trying to retrace the shape of his mouth in the middle of the night, you'll choke on your tongue trying to taste the mint he devoured seconds before pulling you in for a kiss

4. Stop reliving the times you clasped hands together, the glass plate will fall off your trembling hands.

5. Burn this list, admit that the galaxies and constellations shining in his eyes were wilted, the one in yours are bursting with fire. Remember on the dead, hazy day his laugh sounded like nails running down a chalkboard. Remember when you kissed, the weeds growing from his mouth entangled the roses blooming in yours.

Realize that one day, another boy is going to come and plant daisies where he left behind thorns.

The blue song bird
mellifluous singer admired
for her songs that melt
even hearts of rock,
riding the crust
of the adoring wind,
swoop,
            down,
                    down,
                              down
wit­hout a thought
suddenly alights,
heroically tries to sit,
on a high tension power line;
yet another of her
impromptu acts like before,
she labors to convince everyone
in a shrill chirping sound
that dangerously she lives
taking life in her own hands.

East wind, her companion tells
she is mistaken; he tries to push
her away from the lethal wire
on which death awaits with its dark hum

"young and wayward bird
you tell me you learn so quickly
from your mistakes, alright
from now and the moment next
lies an unknown chasm
in a jiffy if you decide to fathom it
no time is left for unlearning what it teaches
and reverse your journey
to the winter land  of darkness
from where no migratory bird has ever come back"
The bird so deaf to wind's words,
still hovers above the wire
the wind in warning hums a sad tune aloud.