Emily shmemily,
Emily Dickinson,
Recluse and poetess,
Rendered her rhyme

Idiosyncrously,
Much of her poetry
Reading most cryptically
Much of the time.

Robert Herrick,
Poet and cleric,
Wrote numbers that were noble
When they weren't ignoble.

It's strange how things have gotten now,
I know i tried ,but failed somehow.
I gave my  best ,to make my mark,
Yet i failed,to make it work.
Never to give up,nor to rest,
I try and fail ,and that's a conquest.
No fear or regrets, for the choices i make,
It's what the heavens have decided,
For me to take.
I know i have it ,but I can't make it,
Can't fulfil your dreams, just to take it.
Sometimes i feel, it's all enough,
Things i am trying have brought me slough.
Eyes have dried, crying in the rain,
To conquer or fight ,whatever it takes,
Have to rest,till my mind reawakes,
Just so ,to do that ,all over again.
No matter how i hard i try, to put up a fight,
It's never enough, for you guys.
I know i am ,no perfect !
I am what i am, and that's that !
Can change myself or how i am,
Because that's how i was built at.
I know i tried to fight back,
But every time i go, i fall back,
Can't find whatever i lack,
Or what things can bring me on track.
I think it's wise to give up the fight,
And continue doing,whatever things i like.
Maybe i will find,the heavenly light,
That sends me to the path,that is right.
And that's that, from my story,
Someday i shall, too, find my glory.
To narrate the world,this was my story.

Far away, I see a man
Standing tall on rocks of sand.
Careful not to move or breathe.
Fearful of what may break beneath.

He sees me, too,
Wading in a pool of blue.
Here I have stood for years,
Now tired from all of my fears.

The water whispers my name,
Saying I am not to blame.
She offers me rest.
And lulls me to take one last breath.

But the man warns me to keep my head above,
Warning me of the devil’s dove.
If I die, so will he; even now, we totter
Scared, I may drown in three feet of water.

My hands continued to explore he;
                  my fingers finding their way,
                  between her legs,
                  feeling her wetness.

I am definitely no poet but I like to write and I wish I could capture in my poetry
(if it can be considered poetry),
the melancholy of changing seasons
and empty sidewalks and long secret
fleeting glances.
Longing and Desire burning in the flames of youthful passion.
Or true love if that exists, I am sure it does.
The afternoon silence or
the echoing laughter on a windy day,
my love for my family, the radiant smiles of my friends.
The way sunlight decorates the ocean
waves in summer, disappears in the
monsoon,
Only to return back with shades of golden
in autumn and peeking desperately,
Trying to warm the frozen earth in desolate winter.
The utter feeling of loneliness that
connects each and every one of us,
The emotional weight of saying a goodbye
to the last year at new year's,
My childlike sense of adventure and
wonder,
Or my dread when it comes to talking
about death.
But mostly and desperately I sincerely
hope that my poetry
(that on some days I am not even sure can
be considered poetry),
captures the essence of loving and living,
A life well lived and loved that would be
called mine.

Whenever I stare at you, you also gaze.
You have beautiful eyes; I'm amazed.
Words cannot convey the turban's grace,
Its presence adds to your beauty's embrace.

Your bright face, your sparkling eyes,
Your fancy pearl, your charming smiles
All are attractive, all are impressive,
All are simple, all are amazing.

But, Maria, whispers linger,
Making you seem untouchable.
Whispers stay,
Saying you're deceitful.

Yet, Maria, despite the whispers,
No matter what the rumor’s tale,
My loyalty to you shall never fail.