I look at you

And I see a faraway crafted look in your eyes

Searching for the infinity;

Looking for something that could only be seen,

But could never be felt.

Like a brief moment of solitude,

Or the cracking sound of hailstorms;

You think of me,

Like an unforgettable winter afternoon

Which creates a chill across your spine –

A chill which reaches to your soul

And makes it cold.

Colder.

You close those emerald eyes, and then

You think of me

And of the last time when we kissed,

And how I wrote from the touch of my lips

On your pearl white skin,

How much I love you.

How much I loved you.

But that touch seems like the memories

Of a different lifetime.

A life once lived, but now forgotten

With the thunderstorms of time.

You open your eyes and think of me.

One last time,

Before closing them again. Forever.

And would call me your lover.

A lost one.

Your immortal…

A Hypotenuse
Is on the opposide side
Of the right triangle

I never stick to anything for more than a few weeks
Habits die harder than young love, it's so bleak
I never finish anything, my creation is disaster
But if destruction's a form of creation, call me.. "Creative Master"

I wake, reluctant;
Too cold to get out of bed,
But I need to ***

Sadness is weird for me.
It leaks from my biggest smile,
and from tears of laughter.
Sadness lingers with me in a hug,
and when I´m dancing.
It creeps into my mind when I'm alone
or de center of a party.
The urge to cry is there
I simply lack the tears.

Sadness is weird for me
It hides in the corner of my mind
to surprise me when I least expect it
But other times it prances around
waiving a flag as if to show me...
but I know, I feel it
I simply lack the tears

Sadness is weird for me
because it is numb
and yet I feel it so strong.
Because I smile,
even when I want to cry
I simply lack the tears.

Two 100's.
My father says the world is my oyster.

I guess I could do anything,
continue to learn

anything I wanted
to know, I could know - anything.

Knowledge is power
and the world is my oyster.

Haikus are easy,
But sometimes they don't make sense
Refrigerator

Nighttime is scary.
The “monster under the bed” or
the “ghost in the dark”
are childish compared to what
the night really holds.
It holds loneliness,
quietness,
truth.
The truth that
you are not important.
not another soul cares.
Your thoughts are your only “friend”,
and even those are dangerous.
Beckoning.
Calling to me.
SHOUTING at me to give in.
Give in to the urges.
Give in to the hurt.
Open the ivory,
and let the red pour out.
The shine of silver was my only solace,
the “light at the end of the tunnel”.
The SHOUTING is endless.
Deafening.
Screaming to make it stop only makes it louder.
The SHOUTING shakes me.
V
   i
      b
         r
            a
               t
                  i
                     n
                        g
    throughout my body.
M o v i n g me to give in.
Give in.
Give in.
It yells.
It screams.
It is SHOUTING.
Cursing,
yelling,
crying,
screaming.
Nothing works.
“just be quiet. please.”
A whisper.
The SHOUTING stops.
I am all alone again.
The silence is endless.
Deafening.
Screaming for it to come back only makes it more still.
The silence shakes me.
V
   i
      b
         r
            a
               t
                  i
                     n
                        g
    throughout my body.
M o v i n g me to plead.
To plead.
To plead.
It’s hushed.
It’s reticent.
It is silent.
Begging,
praying,
demanding,
urging.
Nothing works.
“come back.”
A whisper.
The SHOUTING doesn’t return.

I know that you look up to me;
For one, because I'm six feet tall,
But I think that I have done my best,
To keep you safe -- away from all,
The little things that ****** me up.

Who would contradict the affection of a mother?
She who endeavored to bestow us the breath of existence;
Intensely compassionate in personality they are.
Secures us and therefore forms our defense.

Who else can obtain and sustain the duty of a sister?
She who happens to be our emotional support;
Sensible in intellect and gentle in action they are.
Guides us and therefore on no account lets us abort.

Who would constantly be dependable like a wife?
She who makes it crucial to fulfill our needs at any rate;
Gorgeous in qualities and remains beside us for our entire life,
Idolizes us and therefore desires us to be her soul mate.

Who else can be more valuable than a daughter?
She who sacrifices for the advantages of her family;
Garnished with essence of motherliness and heals our scar.
They are overflowing with responsibilities to an extreme degree.

Women stay as the most significant person in our life and soul,
And build an effort to facilitate us to accomplish our goal.

“I love you,”

Was the last thing I wanted to say to you.

Before you walked away

And disappeared with the melting sunset.

When a part of me died with the broken bones

And the cracked ribs that produced an empty sound,

A nostalgic echo with the flawed beats of my heart.

So instead of letting you know,

How much I loved you –

I remained still and I choose to stay.

I stayed like the wrinkles of my bed

That unfolds themselves with your curves

And remains intact even in your absence.

I stayed like the roots of a winter tree

That never lifts up above the ground

And only choose to penetrate within

Until nothing remains to grow.

And I choose to stay,

Like a frozen chunk of ice

Or a heartless bronze statue;

Having a faraway look in my eyes –

Waiting for you to come back.

Waiting for you to turn.

Waiting to forgive you.

Because someone once told me,

That is what love is.

Stingy bug of hate
Have you met my flyswatter?
Death can be sudden

She spoke to me in poetry
The only way to communicate with my heart directly without interferences.

And soon, the day will come,

When all would be set and done!

When all the curtains between

Nothingness and vacuum will fall apart.

They will dig us back,

From the haunted grounds

And desolated cemeteries.

And our soul will dance

On the tongue of salvation!

Our cadavers –

Oh! They will look at each other,

Craving to touch,

To find their eternal ending.

But they will never touch their fingertips,

With each other.

And they will never be together!

Because the most beautiful things in this world

Are always destroyed. Always broken.

And they all would come and see us!

They would display our bodies

In museums and in exhibitions,

They would take tickets from people to see,

The longing and the pain

That would reside on our skeleton.

The longing for a forever that never came.

And from that day onwards, they would call us,

“The Lovers!”

The crying sun
The moonless night.
The silent poetess
With words so bright.
The soft murmur
The gentle caress.
The careless whisper
Her silken dress.
She cries in dark
Her pain is veiled.
She puts in fear
A brave new face.
Those misty eyes
With tears like dew.
They speak to me
In words so few.
Her words flow
With unseen grace.
Her lips move
With mingled haste.
The silent poetess
Cries in vain.
For she finds none
To share her pain.

There she was, standing in the rain.

I held my hand out.
She dug her hands deep inside her pocket.

We both looked at the grass-
There was a sharp line.

I took a step forward.
She took a step back.

I listened to the sound of thunder,
She heard the raindrops thud against the ground.

I tried to talk.
She just shook her head.

I clutched at her red overcoat.
She just shook it off, and ran.

I cried out in desperation.
She never turned back.


"I was always holding onto people, and they were always leaving. "

I remember your breath,
In the room without death,
You were ranting so strange with your hands.
Stroking your hair,
In the perfumed air
While the blossoms
Lay still on your land.

And those were the days,
And that was our world,
We were running from the filth
And the cash.
And I was in love
With your eerie kind soul,
I still have your
White ribbon sash.

But you weren’t aware,
With the books in your head,
Amongst the butterflies drifting around.
You weren’t aware,
With your bright shining hair,
Just sleep now,
You’re sleeping now,
Just sleep now,
You’re awake now,
Your fingertips gracing the ground.

I remember your breath,
In the room without death,
Your jewels useless,
They lay on the mat.
We sat and we sang,
Ignoring the bang,
As the prisoners were shot through their hats.

And then closing your eyes
From the outside noise,
That tried to sneak up under the door.
You sighed out a song,
You said ‘God no more’
I have lived well
Although I didn’t live long.

And you floated away,
Like a white feathered moth,
Your face
It was warmed by the sun.
You floated away,
On that tropical dusk day,
You’re asleep now,
Please just sleep now,
You’re asleep now,
A constant dream now,
Stop feeling the earth down

It’s done.

What do you do when your illusions shatter?
When someone who you thought was your dearest
closest friend, the one who could rely on...
Shows again and again that she doesn't care?
That she isn't who you thought she was
Or maybe she's grown up, grown apart, grown different?
What do you do if you still care?
If you reach out your arms to eyes that don't see them?
Plead to ears that don't want to hear?
How long do you stay in place, arms open?
Wait and wait for your turn to talk?
How do you believe that it's over?
How do you deal when the friend you thought would always listen
Brushes away your deepest, humiliating fears with a laugh?
Who shrugs when you told her you needed her, and she wasn't there?
Shrugs because of course -- of course! -- her life is
more important than your own. Her sorrows more tragic.
You are merely to profit from her examples.
How do you react when you realize
this person who thinks she knows you so well
Doesn't know you at all? Barely as much as that stranger
You just met, but who listens when you tell them what you want
And who you are. Who thinks of you as a person
Not someone who should reside in her head.
How difficult it is to let go of an illusion
Even though you've been lonely for so long
To abandon hope is another thing altogether
To turn your back on the past and break
those fragile threads. To look ahead and
Never look back again.
There is no shatter as if of broken glass
Fragile but till now protected.
No cry of anguish except in one heart.
And that's not audible. But if
You listen closely, you might hear
The last threads of fabric tear.

I'm tired of being the one who listens.
I'm tired of being the one who calls.
The one who ends silences.
The one who breaks down walls.



The one who never shows anger.
The one who never asks.
And the one who will remember
But wear a smiling mask.



Old friends are better than new.
They know you without needing to ask.
But I wish that sometimes you
would, even if you know, still ask.



I'm tired of the distances.
Of having to work at keeping it alive.
Excuse me my absences:
I may - or may not - be back in a while.

Im walking around as a man,
I see all the peoples numbed
And hysterical running sideways
Awash in all the bumpers and
Window pains.

A whiff of life matters and its suicidal.
I walk sober and wonder of gardens
And simple natures, a return to all
That that I forgot.
I see the institutional shadows
Hogging all the light.

It so happens Im sober now
And I'm fed up with this circus.
Being this kind of man leaves
Me feeling plastic.

Still- it would be nice to rain
A little hope now and again,
Leaving the panic of bills and
Payments behind for a few,
Maybe just breathe and know I am alive,
But all the people seem to be
Dying of the shivers.

I cannot live like this,
Like a fool with no bearing,
Wide open and wounded dripping
All the demons that seem better
Than this realistic catastrophe,
Absorbing the monetary blows.

Ive had all I can take from
The sadness, the pain, the old demons.
I step into your world and I decided
I dont like it this way either,
Dying of normalcy and repetition.

I am no cadaver, underground with
A bunch of metaphorical cadavers,
The paper be the morgue,
The words be the morbidity of the
Life.

Thats why I flare up indside like
A bon fire, when you see me up close
With the face of a poet, the life
Of a rogue, broken down and
Walking with grey October,
You will see me.

Something shoves me toward hope,
Dripping the fragments of darkness,
I fly out the windows,
Smelling afresh the air I know
Is there, I smile and I know
That I make hope,
Such audacious hope.

There, the trusted doors I open,
The horror that I leave,
The repetition I smite,
I still all the mirrors and take a deep breath,
Unabashed crossing your path,
I see with crystalline eyes,
The world I make,
The wounded heart that still
Manages to love,

I dare to hope,
I dare to live,
I live to hope.....

Upon an honest mans grave they danced and joked

Upon an honest mans grave they sighed and smoked

Upon an honest mans grave they drank their wine

Upon an honest mans grave they did their line

Upon an honest mans grave they told some lies

Upon an honest mans grave they howled and cried

Upon an honest mans grave their life became so bleak

Upon an honest mans grace they were too dead to speak

Baby on the floor
Likes to play with potato
Potato is cooked

We've all heard about the site 'Ask.fm' where people anonymously ask each other questions, be it about their personal life or just for fun. I recently joined this site just to see what kind of questions people ask and how people react to such questions. But one answer really infuriated me.
A person was asked to describe his country (India) in 3 words. He replied saying 'Cricket. ****. Corruption'. Now I understand the frustration a normal Indian faces everyday regarding the growing cases of **** and corruption. But why insult your own country on a public forum knowing fully well that the person sending the question might just be from a different country? Is this the picture we want to give others about India? We should be proud to be Indians and should talk highly of our country. This brings me to my next point.
I hear a number of Indians, specially students, criticizing the country and saying that they want to leave it. It bothers me that educated Indians themselves have no will to help develop their own country. India cannot grow until the people want to make it grow. Unfortunately, people, including me, have been influenced too much by the western culture. We see America and all we want is to live in a country as 'classy' and developed as America. Why don't we think even once that if we leave, how will our country flourish? It is the people who form a country, not the government and not the old politicians. I am not implying that all of us should join politics and run the country. But the least we can do is lead it to the path of development in the best possible way we know.
Charity begins at home. Our home is India and we are Indians. Running away from this fact won't change it.

I'm walking in the rain.
Hooded head tilted down.
Thinking about the school
And its restrictions on me.

Thinking about how this new girl
May be my new love.
Wondering how I've came
To cutting myself.

There's two places left uncompromised.
At home alone or out and about
Where none can catch me.
Where none will doubt me.

Where I can write my heart out.
Where I can cut (myself) without fear.
Where I can believe in Santa Clause.

Where I can listen without judgement.
Where I can be free without conforming.
Where I can love without hate.

Whats it all really about
Why are we here
Why are we all so driven, so desperately violent when
There is but one certainty
In the whole of lifes continum-
Its end.
Exhaustive questions and berating theories have me deep in
Self reflective madness
But any expression, any writing - any cry - is that but a reflection of Our precociously ill conceived time

At twenty one thirty ,
and far away,
she made up her mind
and couldn't stay.

Her pain was too much,
for her to bear.
I tried to reach out,
but she didn't care.

At just seventeen,
she had been through hell,
Could not escape
her molested cell.

Nowhere to go,
seeing darkness around,
No escape for this girl,
only hell bound.

I begged her to stay,
she said go away,
Why do you care?
I bowed down to pray.

She grab the blade,
going deeper every time,
Slashed her wrist,
I cried and I cried.

A thousand miles away,
I am now in somber.
Why did you leave me?
I will always remember.

The internal clock winds down another year
Time keeps going by faster i fear
How much longer am i supposed to be here
That's not up for me to decide
Or is it
Who knows anymore
Certainly not me
Counted my birthdays on five year intervals with my fingers and toes
I've ran out
Nineteen years old still so very concerned with what life is about
I'm wasting time
Or am i
Who knows anymore
Am i still in my youth
What little youth i had
You tend to grow up very fast when self loathing thoughts are all you've ever had
Praying to a god to relieve you of always being so sad
Relative to everything that's happened in the past
I cannot release this hot burning coal
Its not as simple as letting things go

The younger kid
Looks at the older girl
And wonders
Why she doesn't drive yet

Why she's still riding the
School bus,

He wonders
Why her ears are plugged
So deep,
Throbbing with sounds
He can almost hear.

He wonders
Why she looks so sullen.
So somber.

At his younger age,
There's not as much
To be sad about yet.
But he doesn't know.
And she's not about to tell him.

They're separated by years
And he can't quite understand her
But she understands
Him,
wondering.
Because she used to do it too.

You wrote me chocolate poems once
And asked if the words
Would melt on my tongue
When I spoke them aloud
Would their sweet taste
Linger only as long
As it took for me to say I loved them
Would the verses run together
And make a muddied mess of emotion
That quickly faded
I just laughed at the thought of it
These chocolate poems
Not understanding what you meant
That all you thought you were doing
Was feeding me sugar sentiments
Candy coated love
That I would eat up
And never think of again
So I ask you this
as I pull your chocolate poems
Out of the drawer I kept them in
for all these years
Do you think they have melted?

Girl: "I wish tomorrow was Tuesday. Oh God."
Boy: "Erm. Tomorrow's Tuesday."
Girl: "Chup reh. I wish tomorrow was Saturday. Wheeeeeeeeeeeeee".