In another land, I could’ve been soft;
I could’ve braided flowers in my hair
and sung lullabies at dusk.
In another land,
I could’ve been mellow,
sweet like a first kiss
and loved by the sun,
blushing from his touch.

Here’s to the girl I could’ve been;
here’s to the nights I wish I were her.

Let the wine spill over the mud,
let us pretend it isn’t blood,
let us pretend we haven’t swallowed the poison
that made our insides rot with desire
for the sky,
perhaps just to see how low we can fall.

In this land I am courageous,
covered in star dust that makes my eyes water.
In this land I hold the bitterness inside,
until it’s boiling.

Let me die a legend,
let me die lost in the land that made me who I am.

I could’ve been soft.
Instead, I am rage.

I met a girl today, she was pretty legendary. she had batteries for eyes and metal for skin so anytime she touched me I felt a spark. I exaggerate a lot but she really had wings on her shoes cos she looked like she wasn't touching the ground. face like Aphrodite, mind of a god and the body structure of a goddess, she makes me wonder if heavenly bodies are found only in outer space. I guess I can actually say she's out of this world. she's got da Vinci fingers for teeth cos every time she smiles it's pure art. so you see, she was pretty legendary. I wanna meet her again and see how deep she is and I'm not talking about our conversations. I wanna plant rose seeds in the creeks of her lips so every time she cries and the flowers grow, she'd remember who put them there. let me be the reason you laugh and the reason your tears cease, the reason you're happy and the reason you're not sad. let me make you smile, unlike Arsenal I won't let you down.

They call him Captain
because although his old girl
is a row boat
he goes where
he orders himself to go,
and tends to his love
with the same effort
and care
as a full crew of
the descendants
of gods.

They call him Crazy
because he uses the moon
instead of a compass,
and reads poetry
instead of treasure maps.
Though a hermit he is,
he scrapes together
enough money to travel
and dream.
Otherwise he knows
how to survive
on intense, amorous affairs
and treats his women
like queens
using only a quill
and their bodies
for paper.
But he sails alone as if
more loyal to his boat than
a man to his wife.

They call him Spirit
because he comes and he goes,
pulling the high tide with him.
He writes on beaches
where the moon is brightest,
under clear skies and never
after sunrise.
He shrinks with the waves
and is never seen again
by the same individual.

Most often they call him Myth
and on desolate nights
he tells himself
that those who don't know the sea
intimately
lack faith.
Then he paints portraits
of the old, exhausted faces
of the stars
and speaks epic poems
to crustaceans as he boils
them alive
(if he isn't human
then he's cruel just like one).


All who know him forget his name,
and he tells them to
as they wave goodbye
and the sea ***** him
back into her arms,
against her beating breast.
Yet his is not a lonely existence,
not another soul is necessary
to keep him rowing.
It is as satisfying
as it is solitary,

because he calls himself poet,
and a poem is all he needs.

it seems that as time passes
we grow old and our art
grows immortalized

l.r.

Let it be known throughout the land
From highest peak to wettest sand
With sharpened tongue and steady hand
The talking frog is in command

With belly white and skin of lime
A hero for the modern time
He uppered fun and lowered crime
His skillset includes pantomime

Of all the kings he is the best
A chiseled jaw and manly chest
We even put him on our crest
(He helped to found the turnip fest)

A friendly frog we all adore
With lots of fun and games in store
He'll make us smile, he has before
We thank you, frog, for this and more!

If we consider ourselves as legends
There  will be no such thing as one.
Legends are the great.
And maybe  you are a legend.
I am not.
Right?
Poetry is legendary.
And we are a part of it
But  we are not to be self  proclaimed.
Legends are for others  to decide about ourselves
Not us.

so in pure
fabled fashion,
at the battle of Haldighati (1576),

Chetak, Maharana Pratap
astride, leapt across
a gaping betwixt two cliffs

and fatally injured,
died a hero,
that

400-odd years later
the Arabian steed
stands stone-cut in Jaipur,

the Maharana
urging him on
to battle,

Chetak,
all set to go
airborne...

A man, a movement,
Whose words stung like a Bee,
But had the masses floating to him,
When he spoke about peace,
He shook up the World like he said he would,
And twisted our perceptions of what it meant to be a true hero,
And for that we thank you.

A winner
He was, He is
he will be forever!..
(You have never gone anywhere you are always in hearts of all the fans!.)