two syllables
never left your tongue
you sung it
like a song
stuck in your head

a constant reminder
that I was the one
you were talking to
when you followed
with three more words

it was never the way
you said my name
but the way
you never made me
forget it

the soul likes
when I dress him up like this:
few vowels,
more consonants,

syllables, and all the rest
that float
on the white clouds
of dreaming

on the red waters
of the heart.
he could hide, of course,
but would rather

show off scars and slashes.
naked, colorless being,
he needs
the glitter of language,

rhyme and rhythm,
similar, succeeding sounds;
he needs poetry’s depth,
beauty

and immortality
and the lucid glare of eyes,
substance
and stimuli,

to exist
to be more than a song
that plays
in silent frequencies—

so he flows—
from the deep of feeling
washes out burdens
like a mighty stream;

and unto paper
blooms up the slick and scented
petals of pain
like rain.

A rose blooming in a summer rose bed
stops to envy you as you smell the roses.
For two beauties sit in the picture,
but neither is the rose.
The sight of you is a wonder to my eyes,
one that keeps me warm through winter days.
The grace inside you is as beauty
and beyond my words to explain.
So when I fumble my syllables,
embrace me as the rose embraces the rain.

Family,
Burden or Relief?
Love or hate?
Share or split?
Choice is ours to create the
Bond, or extricate?

Solitude,
Escape or accept?
Joy or pain?
Hope or fear?
Choice is yours to ensure the
Concord, or discord?

Life, deeply
Unfurls the pure truth
Of combat
Within us,
Choice either to win or lose
Or walk towards love.

- Aishwarya Sridhar

The clock  ticks
ticks
ticks

Pounds on the inside
Of my skull -

Need an aspirin

stay here
(on the Sofa)
  feel the Beat
   (and never go)

be my boy
(everlasting)
  at the end
  (talk around)
    secrets of love

I love the way her hair turns in circles,
How she cuffs her pant legs to show her shoes,
The way she hikes her pants like Steve Urkle’s
How she only wears different kinds of blues.

If my parents knew they’d certainly cry.
Such disappointment for their only kin,
But if they knew they would surely ask: Why?
My religion would view me as a sin.

My mom says I am committing a crime.
My dad says I should not think about it.
My friends say they’ll support me in due time.
My therapist says this will go to ****.

My story has no home, it is a stray;
But this story has a plot twist. I’m gay.