Yes, it is red
the color of your lies
combines with the purple
of your eyes...

Yes it is pain
that emotion
that brings explosions.

I'm blue trying to be green
trying to be you.
Hopefully we will be
together soon.

Poetry is that one excuse for me to say things aloud, (at times, only to the piece of paper or the blank screen) that I couldn't have, in another conversation with another person, or maybe even with myself. Reading poetry reminds me of things I may have thought about and left midway, long ago, maybe because I didn't dare go beyond that point, besides numerous other reasons. The interpretations are perhaps the most interesting aspect of it - I end up interpreting my own compositions in newer ways, when I come back to them weeks later. It's almost like a form of meditation for me because when I ponder and write, I am amazed at how a fifteen minute scribbling exercise alters the way I see the world, almost like discovering a new colour, as it were. Poetry is simply, gazing with love at those corners of life, things, people and ourselves, that sunlight is often unable to reach.

Lying on the roof
On a cold summer night
Clear sky above
Looking to catch
A falling star
One passes by
So fast I almost missed it
Just like this moment

I walk with my head down
trying not to be seen
But I can feel them staring
their eyes boring into the back of my head
as I continue down the empty street
alone

The moon lulled itself
Into few second-long naps,
The winds whispered the smell
Of the oncoming rains
As ants did a tight-rope
On the tree's sleeves.
The dog pricked its ears,
Each time the tiny hurricane
Of dried leaves whirled round.
The spider attempted to balance itself
On the maze of its own making,
As the web threads strummed
A happy tune
In response to the wind.
The lull before the storm,
Was becoming too much of a bulk
For the clouds to bear,
Before a slant of water droplets,
(Some drying midway through
The atmosphere's layers,)
Stamped their arrival
On the parched layers
Of land, leaves and minds.
Streaks of lightning
Conducted a survey
On the distribution of downpour
Clicking vintage tinted photographs.
The rains slowed down to a drizzle,
The insects buzzed through a banter,
The moon tried to
Sneak through the clouds,
Surprised at its reflection
In a puddle on the street.
The morning wakes up
Smelling a misty presence
Of the (previous) night it rained.