The end of our journey
on the horizon's center;
the last stop to this asylum
in the midst of winter.

Darlings of destitution painting
****** distractions on the latex;
the essence of ambition covered
within the toxic keepsakes.

Cold doors keeping out
the warmth of affections;
our bodies wrapped tightly
within the canvas of preconceptions.

The thumping of our minds
beneath the crumpling distress;
ideas illuminating our perilous
potential.  ****** beads of sweat falling
into the darkness.

Crazy notions spewing
all over the floor; the
filthy piles of wasted
time is growing.

Insanity within this circle
of trust; our dreams mislead us.
No windows to expose the sun as
we recline towards amnesia.

my dreams are
the texture of the earth
softened by the monsoon
a clairvoyant fragrance rises
from the green sprouts
pushing their way through-out
and through-in
my rain-coloured mental canvas
a cool drop snakes down
my ready spine
i’m dissolved
in the frissons that ensue
even as your warmth
embraces me
every numbing night
the winds detach the flowers
from every mourning tree
and i give you myself
as you rain on me
incessantly

- Vijayalakshmi Harish
   13.06.2013
   Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish

I let my face rest in
the rising rain water
My muscles were relaxing
Drops fell on my neck freshly
The rain fell light and even

As I laid I sank in
I wanted to be gone
Sink into the nothingness of matter
Be of and separate of nothing
I was content with complacency

But you pulled, you did not fight
You showed me how great it was
being more than you were
How truly eminent you could be
The way we make ourselves

You cried out, "Look
we are clean now,
the rain has cleaned us"
So I rose and so did you
"Let's be of and separate of each other"

Without question
my favorite instrument
would have to be my
electronic Brother typewriter
The chattering of the keys
and the punching of letters
become the melody
of whatever I'm feeling
whether it comes
fast and furious
or slow and pensive
it always knows
what I'm trying to say
and don't get me wrong
I love a good six string
and ivory and ebony keys
may equate to beauty
but they don't compare
to my instrument
It's ancestors graced
by some of the greatest players
to walk this earth
complete with a handle
so that I never have to leave it behind
to me,
there is no music sweeter
than the stories which erupt
from my favorite instrument

How is one to be one's own
All there is to feel is disdain
What else is to be shown
To feel anything, especially happiness, is pain

"Nothing is original": Teenage Anthem
No truer words have ever been written
Emotions can't belong to any of them
They're sent via a social subscription
All one's thoughts are already said ever so splendidly
Force fed back to the mind (a reminder of the artfulness not of thyself) that couldn't vocalize
The poet says "It's nice to not be alone" all too friendly
No words have been a greater weapon to terrorize
To not be alone in the feeling of apathy is
all one needs to feel at ease...

My comfiest sweater.
My most relaxing t-shirt.
That one cap, that belt.
These things I can't take back,
stolen from past loves
at the exact moment we began to cry.
I starve for the chance
to wash them in smoke,
douse them in beer
so these clothes are no longer theirs
but mine.

people have a tendency
to take things for granted
as if to say
it isn't good enough
to meerely be breathing
it's like
we're always wanting something more
greedy when it comes to happiness
or maybe it's just
that we aren't ever really happy
unless we're miserable
a culture which breeds masochists
we just can't see heaven
we are more focused
on worrying about which clouds
will be rain clouds