Not for me
does the sun burn,
not for me
does the earth turn,
not for me
do the waters flow,
not for me
does the moon glow.
not for me
do the birds sing,
not for me
do the birds not sing.
We are not
a family of loved ones,
we are not
companions in hate either,
we are just here now,
may be living till then
may be not.

It’s no beauty nor ugliness,
neither chaos nor finesse.
We’re in a maze,
trying to figure out,
what’s it all about.
Some say accident,
some say miracle,
some say a hole,
some say the pinnacle.

It isn’t a story
but an act extempore,
some act slavish,
some act free.

Until we figure it out,
Let us love each other all out.
Let us hold our warmth
in our embraces,
Soothe me when
my heart races.

Even if I never figure it out,
I’d know what love is about,
You could become my universe,
And I’d soothe myself knowing you,
If I ever could.

I be for you,
You be for me,
Let us love each other all out,
Even if we don’t figure it out.

Let us love each other
So that a few more verses are born
To crawl majestically on the thorn
Of the fear to lose the one you love
To finally get bruised and scattered
Letter by letter
Fetter by fetter,
falling apart and joining the letters of past
which fell like these long time back,
waiting for some more to fall in the future.

Scared you seem,
I wanted you to be,
So you love me
and never leave,
and spare my verses,
my letters.

Promise me you won’t be
like a sun or a moon to me,
I’ve told you my heart,
Don’t tear it apart.
But if you ever do that,
Do it like an art,
Be delicate,
Pierce me with a barbule,
The wound be like a mark,
A mark of my love,
And of your move so dark.

Cyclonic is your kind of adjective;
I suppose I was born to love storms
like you.

I could never really keep my hands to
myself. Nor my mouth. Or my words.

I love you like hurricanes love destruction
and mornings love reckoning.

It's assumable that hurricanes / are nothing more than / two am drives home alone / when everything's just gone terribly wrong

i’m broken
the way every writer is
broken and the words fall
out of the cracks.

Blacker than the black is my white,

Deeper than the earth’s core is my flight,

Brighter than the day is my night,

Shorter than an electron is my height.


Stupid or crazy though it may sound,

We’ve all got a bush to beat around,

It’s all pictures & imagination,

What’s a wise or stupid creation?


Close so close is the ultimate real,

Yet so far ’cause our gates so shut,

It’s just a peep what we finalise,

As the ultimate truth, but.


I cannot say what I am,

I’ve made a story, a lyric for it,

It could be false like many,

But just as the truth, so uncanny.

Poetry is a river running.

You know it is there and
sometimes you take
long walks on its banks.

One day, a Muse emerges
and calls out your name
in a magikal language.

Suddenly, you know
where you belong.

You jump in, surface,
roll over and float,
but remain immersed
for the rest of your life:

mesmerized, flowing,

speaking only in poems.

  ~mce