Can't tell why,
Your message in my inbox;
Brings out a plethora of emotions.

Can't tell why,
When the notification of your name pops up,
My mind becomes a wreck,
Butterflies finding their way into my stomach.

Can't tell why,
When you tell me you liked me as I am,
Amused by what goes on in my head;
I shine a little brighter,
feel a little smarter.

Can't tell why,
You took me by a storm,
Swirled me around,
Got me addicted to you:
The way you plucked the strings of the guitar,
Your voice,
Your words.

Can't tell why,
You suddenly stopped.
Did I do something wrong?

Lying in my bed,
Desperately trying to sleep;
The thoughts in my head:
They refuse to seize.

Slumber surrounding the body,
But the mind lays awake,
Full of thoughts,
I cannot shake.

The dreams of future,
The cool dance move,
From chores and boring routines,
To the beat that earlier grooved.

Trying to reason with,
The reason itself,
Refuses to listen,
Scared of the silence it would have to begat.

A bit of tug and war;
It defeatedly agrees,
Diving down eventually
Into the deep ocean of sleep.

In amidst of dark,
There is always a ray of hope,
Here I stand,
Awaiting that golden strand.

Surrounded by the dawn;
But not too daunting,
Wondering if it will ever come my way;
Or will it sway away?

Until then,
Not so sure;
Here I stand,
Awaiting that golden strand…

A world of its own,
Hiding behind veil of the flesh;
A sweet chaos,
Bringing everyday something afresh
Or sometimes perhaps,
Picking up the trails left down the road long  ago,
The world -
Left unknown to all but the one who owns.

Countless people with countless lives,
Me in the middle;
The one who rolls the dice.
This little yet chaotic world,
Left unknown to all but the one who owns.

Both a curse and a blessing,
Going on endlessly without any ceasing;
Would I be able to break through?
Even if I dare?
This naughty world,
Left unknown to all but the one who owns.

As I take my ink
And write on a paper crisp white,
I fear no word will come out right;
I don't know if it's in me to write.
I often wonder,
What is it that makes me write;
Is it the rising sun
Or the setting moon?
Is it the waves that wash the shore ever so lightly
Or the lilac colour in the evening skies?
Is it everything and all of it
Or nothing at all?

The three little pots:
Adorned by a golden lining,
Coated red,
Sit still,
Nothing being said.

The three little pots,
Sit still,
Unbothered by the rest
Here I sit,
Observing them;
Envious of their oblivious temperament...

Just like a little torch in the dark,
You are my hope,
Guiding me through,
Oh my precious muse!