I've never been great at poetry;
The process always fails for me.
While mister Poe and Shakespeare last,
My writing ends up in the trash.

Their writing style, lost with age,
Their wisdom hid in ev'ry page,
The glory given where it's due -
These are things I cannot do.

My writing's forced; theirs doth flow.
I say it blunt; they say it slow.
Those areas that bless and move
Are places where I can't improve.

So why, with my lack of skill,
Do I keep on writing still?
With such a hopeless case as this,
You'd think I would already quit!

There was a time when I did -
My desk was shut; my pen was hid.
Then something occurred to me
Which changed it all instantly.

If Dr. Seuss had Shakespeare tried,
And Mr. Poe glorified,
And given up in dismay,
We wouldn't have his books today.

So keep on writing how you do
With that style unique to you.
Put your mind into use
(You just might be another Seuss)!

"Life is but a walking shadow...A poor player...A tale told by an idiot"
And his name was Colin.
Every day, in and out, day and night,
He pressed buttons for his job,
For the gluttons.
The place he thought in the rooms.
His day life was told, in hymns and stories,
Of men and women and all their glories.
The button was for the wild and bold.

At night the button was for hope in the dark,
Men and women praying for a spark,
So they could cope.
For their lives, were a stain,
On their world of grains,
The world of hives.

Colin sat at his desk,
Pressing buttons pleasing,
to the people appeasing,
His face a mask.
A day goes by,
The buttons do not stop,
His heart as a whole a spinning top,
His mind does not comply.
Showing the eyes his heart a whole,
"How may I save my soul?"
They laughed those guys.
Those glowing, sneering, smelly eyes,
For they have seen the pain of the idiotic walking shame.
He, Colin the poor,
Stopped the buttons,
He was a bore,
To the men, the eyes
On the walking stalking skies
There were ten.
Colin had no care for those men,
Those men standing there.

He stopped the buttons to live his life,
To keep from the place writhing.
Now Colin is free,
From the pain for he,
The button presser,
Was finally slain.

at times, i wish my eyes had only seen
horizon's haze of darkened clouds instead
ignored the sirens calling so serene
and burnt the bridge that carried off the dead
but i did not, and borne from what we hate
come roses blooming, bloodstains on the dirt
in time, they reach the same destructive fate
and we, the lowly seekers, reach the hurt
the heart we wear upon our sleeves is broke
with every tear, the stitches hold less deep
as time moves on, we try to quell the smoke
of fire raging just before we sleep

at times, i think we're better off as friends
but god, i hope the tempest never ends

Violence. It's said to be an act of destruction,
destroying things depending not on if they deserve to die,
But I, with my life in one eye,
And my conscience in the other I cannot see way another to create, for by
Viewing my life vicariously while viciously vying I'm lying more like biding my time until my untimely demise showing  how softly for an answer we cry
Lying to ourselves and reaching out to the rich in a restriction of our dignity, yes I
Am ashamed of my actions and an answer to my arrogance found have I not, yet by and by
My desire to die is drowned down by the deficit of desire in my heart, hearing not my heated hurting reverence, at the end of this sentence, nothing may seem awry.
However my senses are wearing closer to nothing,
My spine is not detecting, and find I not comforting
The gentle sweep of your hand on my skin, sin brewing within me, seeing and saving my heart from my eyes a time
Of trying, yes, I see it, a life that could've been mine,
Through fault of my own my thoughts fall towards home,
Barely living in a beginning of ending my own.



As time tells me nay, not my nights filled to the brink within me I say
Give me my gentle, my generous, my grieving over my great mistake, yet away
Are my kin, although heaven may not thee, the actions of they
Compared to those of my own, their intention grown not from the seed of dismay,
Yet dismay they convey.
My tears mimic fears from my earliest day
A shrew of hatred shoots through my eye as I sigh to my side in an intake, I cry, "just send me away".
I don't know how often my soul's shrieks are heard, through the night of my consciences cracked walls, my skin sits undeterred, yet anyway
I feel less than adequate, of course, worthless and wondering through my tinted eyes remorse, but try still I may.
The ravens black wing will not withdraw my patience or wither one's restlessness, for on another day
My brother live would be, my conscience clean would be, my wife not mine would be, as a vision of which of they
Survive me could, if pieces fit as they fall away in my chords of chaos dismembering my dismay.

Let me write you a sonnet from the mind-
Like sky and sea, I've broken from the soul.
I want to be with you, unbroken bind:
I want to be with you before time's toll.
And when sun sets and night unfurls her gown
We'll count the stars that linger til the morn
And know they'll never, dying, sink full down
We'll sink into embrace as day is formed.
Whilst time is slow and life is painful short,
We must, emboldened, stop time on its way,
And let this lover's summer be as ought
My wild eyes, your lips, we graceful fae.
Thus when you slip half-gone into my bed
Let us not sleep but make soft love instead.

I was the childlike girl next door for him.

He was a gentleman and the crush of almost all the neighbours.

He never spoke too much so I was never a good listener.

For him I never mattered so much.

But I, like all other neighbours, had a crush on him.

His body never got my focus, but his writings were.

Day by day I fell in love with his unspoken words.

On a rainy day I wanted to express my love,

As because it was his favourite season after all.

Yes, he loved monsoon a lot.

Many neighbours had asked him once, 

Why he love monsoon so much?

He never spoke too much, as I have mentioned above.

But he said he will narrate it on a rainy day.

When I went and knocked his door, 

His roommate said he had went upstairs.

Greeting him a smiley bye, I went to meet my guy.

Love for him or for his words, I was confused a lot.

But I had already started calling him as my guy.

Silly or stupid or again childlike girl, what he will address me now?

I was wondering and riding towards him.

He was sitting near the terrace door and was writing something.

Hey, hi, Writing some poems I guess Mr.... 

I was silent for a while.

It didn't bother me anytime, but I realised,

I do not know his name.

***! what a great lover I am,

Without knowing his name I had fallen in love with him.

My heart corrected me this time.

You have fallen in love with his writings and unspoken words and not with him.

I smiled and said to my heart,

May be I have fallen in love with his writings and unspoken words, 

But the love for him is pure and real,

And I believe the love for him is also devine.

My conversations with my heart was broken by his touch.

Seeing me lost in my own world,

He had given me a **** on my shoulder and said,

I am a writer so I want to be known by that.

He may have wanted to say something more.

I truly like a bad listener stopped him and said,

Shakespeare had once said,

"What's in a name!" 

And being a lover of your writing, 

I too want to say, 

In name there is no fame 

Because fame is there where creativity and innovation resides.

He actually smiled and kissed my forehead,

And then took me to the terrace and said,

When I had come,

The place was new, people were new,

But when I saw you, I felt something not new.

I do not knew by your name but your smile was very much known.

Your smile was like the sunshine which I knew from a time immemorial.

Then were you spoke to me for the first time,

Your words were like the breeze which inspires me to write.

I used to notice when you read my poems after coming home.

Your comments after reading my poems everyday,

Was the best gift for everytime.

And you thought you never mattered so much!

I was happy that you understood my writings more than I had expressed in words.

I am not worried about the answer, I may get now,

But after knowing about your favourite season, 

Monsoon became my favourite too.

Without any fear, I want to confess that, 

I have fallen in love with the childlike girl who stays nextdoor.

Whatever be your answer,

Just say it keeping the raindrops as our witnesses.

Drenched in rain but my tears were real.

I felt like Monsoon had gifted the best rain that day.

Without any confusion, I hugged my guy.

Many days, months and years had passed since then.

Then what! 

He continued with his Writings and unspoken words.

He now goes for world tours,
To spread his unspoken words.

And I?

Being his better half, accompany him everywhere.

From the night sky, the moon gazed at a rose.
The darkness complemented all the sounds.
Under the sycamore, the rose did pose.
The winds shifted the leaves that were now browned.

A child tiptoed through the dark thorn bush.
Scratches and cuts made way across her skin.
She didn’t cry, she didn’t scream, a hush.
Closer she came to the rose as if kin.

The flower shook and quivered from her sight.
She bent under moonlight, no noise heard still.
The trees stood still, waiting for a dark fight.
The girl reached and gently felt the soft rose.

The forest breathed and sighed in relief.
She left without a sound, the night now closed.