Ignite the burning desire to dispel darkness
Deep within your heart to light up the path
Leading to a world full of love and bonhomie
So many minds still stranded in dark streets
With the passion to create widespread mayhem
From darkness they return to darkness
Dying a forlorn death, misdirected existence
Unaware of the warmth of positive zeal
Reach out to them, pass on the light
Give them a direction, to the path of tranquility
Every measured step leading to secured future
Our posterity is holding our hands for direction
If we not lead them to a better world
Then who else will take the onus to dispel darkness

Your silence is like blizzards
Dampening the passionate fire
Numbing all emotions

The blank paper stared at me for long
Wishing, I wield the pen to paint with ink
As my mind is heavy with thoughts
Blank paper offers me the space to share
Myriads of thoughts and deepest emotions
How effortlessly the blank paper draws me
Out of my slumber, to pen down the words
When the pen touches the paper
It connects my soul and heart to the blank space
Waiting for me to fill the white space with emotions
Offering me an easy access to let go
And express with eloquence, over pristine canvas
Painting the most intricate designs with words
Times when spoken words become few
And the only path for me is to compose
It does not complain if the composition goes awry
Being a true companion without being judgmental
Not weary of my erratic thoughts and going wayward
After all, everyday it brings me to the table
That’s the path which I am drawn towards
Without being wary of the world, I pen down my thoughts
The blank paper always waits for me to wield the pen
And the ink flows again to chronicle my thoughts

I dreamt of your fragil face tonight
The same skinny way it was when you were mine
Your grip on reality frightened me
You lost yourself in your calories
I hooked you up to your feeding machine
It wouldn't leave me alone, it wouldn't let me be
On and off it beeped and beeped
The alarm so high pitched, echoed, like your screaming

Nothing I did was good enough for you
Coffee was too difficult
Eggs was all I could do
I sang to you our song, chew, chew...
I am a bag of wind
Blowing meaningless sense into you
You dropped your cigarette, stepped, crushing, ashes
The same you did to me, throwing, mashes, crashes

I treated you like royalty
You deserved the best
On your death bed again
Varying on the wish that your small life would end
Why did you leave me?
When I needed you most
It was a tragic ending
I won't see you again

I listen to the sirens
File at my house
They remind me of your feeding tube
Why did you rip it out?
I'm hiding in my neighbors tree
I need some hope, don't find me please
Eventually, I could describe you as this tree
Never to be the same again, never to love me

I’m counting the freckles on my skin.
I’m tracing the coffee-splotch birthmark on my stomach.
I’m biting my nails and cracking my knuckles and
thinking about the Old House.

I think it’s sort of funny how in an entire life,
with all its seconds and all its moments, and
all its memories, only some things really stick.

There used to be a time where I prided myself
on my apparently “flawless” memory; I forget
things all the time.  Like
        my mother’s voice
        my father’s face
        my grandmother’s eye color.

I fear that I’ve forgotten the most
important parts of my childhood.

I remember daddy’s race cars,
mommy’s wine, the time my sister
slammed the van door on my head, and the
time I kicked the bathroom entrance.

Last week I opened the photo albums from
under my mother’s bed and I’ve
already forgotten all the things that I
finally figured out that I forgot.  
Sitting on the floor, surrounded by one-hour
Walgreens prints, I started to pick open a
wound that I did not even know was there.

My dog’s ashes are still hidden, a copy
of my mother’s Will is still missing, and last
year my step father found prepackaged
“emergency escape bags” in our basement
along with $250 cash inside the
cogs of our whirlpool.

I’ve heard stories of how my mother
kept documented journals of my father, but I’ve
never had the guts to ask for them.

I’m beginning to wonder what kind of people
my parents really were.  I’m beginning to wonder
just how much of my childhood
I’ve forgotten
                           and how much of it
         I’ve lost.

“For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face.”

All is perception
through eyes of flesh.

What is known?
Outside of picture frames
My visage is a mystery.

In a ***** mirror
Dark room
Dimly,
I see myself.

Someday, we will see this
Earth from above
Through the eyes of God.

Face to face with eternity,
We will know.

Face to face with creation,
We will see.

In the presence of the Architect,
We will understand.

Outside of time and space,
We will truly be

alive.