If Thoughts Were Audible,

Would you try to catch & make
Every fluttering thought your Bible,
In your craving
To come face to face
With that one thought
Which would have the answer
To what is the question,
That has gnawed at you since birth.
What if you bumped against
Hitherto infrasonic tremors
Of a morbid sigh or curse,
While hoping to tune into
A blessing or yearning,


Would you consider yourself
The ****** of the Panopticon
Or a prisoner of it?

Would the nail-biting curiosity
Of groping the trail
Of fragmented thoughts
From all (how many?) corners
Make you lose your own 'stream of consciousness',
                         as they would call it?
Deaf now to your own mental utterances
Would you (n)ever speak again?
[Since,
Your eavesdropping mind
Would already know
What the other has to say
As would he, about your thoughts
Before either uttered the first syllable.]

Or,
Would you start thinking
About what to think first
And what order to place those thoughts in, next,
So you could fool your mental trespasser,
Sending him off to a parallel trail of thoughts?
But of course he would be able to
Hear through your strategy
As he would also know
Of that moment
When you decided to
Guard your own thoughts.
But the question is,
Do you have any left, now?

A numb stare is reflected
In your mental neighbour's eyes
As you both confront
The fact that
*Deaf people don't have
Songs stuck in their head.

Words fall short.

It’s 6:24 on a Thursday morn,
and I can hear the city workmen
carting off the broken pieces
of our throw-away lives,
the stained and ***** secrets
we thought we got rid of so easily
by simply tossing them into those bins
thoughtfully provided for the purpose
But we never think about where it all ends,
our broken pieces and soiled yesterdays,
piled together in a field somewhere,
waiting patiently to become the soil
that nourishes our tomorrow

Once, someone was called beautiful
And from that, ugliness was born
With all its self conscious nature

I think therefore I am
          writing
therefore to me I am
          writing.
I think?

the most beautiful thing about poetry is
how the beauty of the words evolve
with you
the more you experience
the more you learn
the more you write

you recognize phases in life
that you didn't know existed
you read old poems but
still feel the same passion
as when you first put your emotions onto paper

you witness greatness becoming perfected
but never reached because
as a beautiful entity
you are forever growing, forever evolving

or maybe the most beautiful thing about poetry
is how you can translate intangible emotions
into relatable words without even fully knowing
what the final piece will be
sometimes you have a vision of the words
and other times the fingers move for you before your
mind can process what is going on
the more you write
the more you see
the more you understand

poetry dares you
to grapple with your emotions instead of hide them

poetry is transformative.

The part of me,
that played in the rain,
Slowly died with you.