================
who speaks the truth
on earth, is it only dead ?
No, no, my sweet heart
you are the one, in, my bed.

Written by
~~~Jawahar Gupta~~~

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digging deep
our eyes do weep
tears of mine give light
One-half of moon is bright

so we sing with anger and will not sleep
but our tongue and sorrow do sound deep
till we discover a transparent mind of our sheep
to keep the body in our body without any further peep

Written by
~~~Jawahar Gupta~~~

today my feelings
are sick
I don't know why
because life is pretty good
I smile genuinely
brighter than before
My smile sits on a chin held higher

maybe they are just a mirror
Of my still struggling health
and today is just part of my journey
It has been a while since I've cried

i swear to god i'm gonna die
in one of these nameless steakhouses
to a backtrack of classical jazz
with my back straight
and my legs crossed
in a pretty dress
and stockings
my hair pulled up tight
(i have a headache- no one cares)
when i get handed a menu,
i barely look
i'm getting the cheapest salad
because that's polite, right?

'you're such a good girl'
beep beep beep

unfamiliar breathing, followed by
silence. my naked body is
alone on my bed sheets.
loneliness breaks my own hand and
morals for a way to get
off but i don't. i sit there and
conjure up sweet whisperings
of how i want you. *******,
deep and hard and cold.

if i'm such a good girl, then
tell me. why do i wish my flesh
will melt away like the leaves?
masochistic idiosyncrasies
wrap my vanilla heart up in
a pretty little bow. your fingers
beg to scratch off my humanity;
they have to wait their turn.

she gave me her cell #,
in a crowded bar
inked upon my forearm,
"in case in my drunkness, I dare forget,"
a common come-on technique,
that reeks of all good things to come

but I failed to see,
in the little letters,
"@ your own peril"

a warning, poorly heeded,
inflaming my now unimaginable
needy neededs,
just a **** come on,
or a warring warning of tumult,
vampirish blood *******?

with cautious haste,
her number I did paste
into my contact list,
'in case of loss, call,'
when sudden notifications galore,
came unbidden from everywhere:

Are you really sure?

these digits seems were posted on a
Do Not Call list,
maintained by monks and bro's,
no, no, not a list of
what-rhymes-with-bro's,
but of fallen angels,
who knew the secrets of heaven

the price extracted for their revealing,
could cause you life long
arthritis of the heart,
per the Surgeon General,
for which the only cure,
endure, endure, endure...

the prize?

endless wonderful new poems, freely given,
but with one strictest of restrictions,
if published,
it meant your slow extinction!

that is why the world calls me
Poet of the Way,
forever trying to find a way,
to away these treasured glories

then one day,
he laughed and laughed,
when he first he read the magic key,
your poem, successfully saved on
Hello Poetry!

and now the poet endures,
even possibly, self-saved,
quite happily

i.

at the edge of a dark sky,
where the framed door
lies closed and the
rain’s smooth octaves
gather the last lonesome
heart-beat of the summer in
its mists that tap the door,

ii.

the grey air,
cloud-drawn, straps
its satchel to its back
its stones the silvers
of a silent moon,

iii.

its stones sombre and smoky,
the dead of night,
a crimson king
a blossoming flower,

iv.

where the night’s slated
roof listens to the rains
urgent rushings, silver
and shaded like a storm,

words of the air
sinking back like the
desolate waves that hush
the sands as they drown
their sorrows in baskets
conjured out of the breath
of the grey-eyed night.

v.

you kiss me and i start to
swoon, i swoon like a garden
rose that climbed once to
the sky, a garden overgrown  
with the quiet of apple-coloured
leaves, the summer with its vines,
its leaves the bright rain drops,
its leaves the visions of the air.