I bet you are pretty,
You have to,
You have a perfect shape and body,
Please turn, would you?

You one of those polite kind,
Soft voice with a wild mind,
I hope you're not a spoiled child,
So please turn around,

I have to see your face,
Its not about beauty,
I just want see your glance,
I hope you turn for the sake of me,

The ride is almost over,
And so far u havent dropped on any stops,
I hope you stay and keep my head sobber,
Or turn so I can start over...

The person sat by me,
Is calling somebody,
He's saying 'I love you'
Is that so unusual,
To feel so alone in that moment?

The lovers at the front,
Have had more than enough
Of their parents' scrutiny
So they commit mutiny,
And consequences are left unspoken.

The cold condensation
Hides all condescension,
From every pedestrian
With bitter complexions
Who braved the cold and are frozen.

Forty seats,
Occupied by 40 different personalities.
The destination,
For now,
Is same.
Just passing the time:
Gazing out of the window,
Talking to a stranger,
Engrossed in mobile phones,
Taking a nap.
Or writing,
*Like me.

Hazel eyes on the bus
I looked for you,
You looked for me.


--Watercolour

Tears fill my eyes,
As I stare at this blue
Blue sky,

I'm so
****** frustrated,
Why is it always like this?
Why am I  like this?

Why?

I like writing poems
in buses.
I like the image
of letters leaving
and trailing
behind the bus
as it moves
towards its destination.
On stop signs,
I get stuck
on a word
letting it sink
in me,
leaving me
no excuse
to escape.
In every car,
bus, truck,
there is a poet
driving away
from something,
leaving his works
on the asphalt.
Not one pedestrian
ever dared
to read it
or pick it up,
at least,
to throw it
in the trash.
If only poems
fill up potholes
and bumpy roads,
bus-rides
would be
smoother.