All she wished

was to share her love with him.

But when she saw him kissing

the girl he once called stranger,

her heart froze then and there.

She stood still for a while,

her heart unwilling to believe

even her own eyes.

Then with a broken heart

and shattered dreams,

she bade him goodbye.

A teardrop slipped

from her eye,

and her broken heart

silently asked—why?

The moonlit sky

whispered to the stars,

“Let us sing

the song of love tonight.

Call out all the lovers,

let them feel love again,

let them dance the night away.”

Found freedom fighting.

Fly freely now in the free sky.

Forget not the freedom fighters.

I thought I was tough,
could keep love away,
never asked for it anyway —

but still it entered my heart.

For like water,
though love is soft and gentle,
yet carves its way
through the hardest rocks,
and arrives uninvited.

Last night, I had
a conversation with myself.

I asked,
"Am I in love with poetry,
or is it an addiction?"

I thought for a while,
couldn’t find the answer,
but I do hope
it’s an addiction—
for love always
leaves me.

Since you are gone,

I just talk to myself.

That way,

no one can

hurt me anymore.

I wished to visit

the Louvre

to see the Mona Lisa painting.

So, I decided

to book a trip to Paris.

Then a thought

crossed my mind:

Is the real Mona Lisa

on display?

The heart said yes,

the mind said no.

It is far too precious

to be out in the open.

The real one must be

kept hidden safely

in some secure,

secret vault.

So, I decided instead

to book a trip to Agra—

to see my favorite Taj Mahal.

At least I know

it’s the real one.

No matter how far ahead

I travel the road of life,

I will always look back—

to remember

what love felt like.

Sometimes I am crazy,
sometimes I am funny.
Sometimes I talk silly,
sometimes I’m a silly goose.

My mood swings
like different hues of blue.

I am all that—
and a little bit more.

Like it or not,
this is what I am.

She saw a face
in her dream.

When she woke,
she remembered
the face.

“Strange,” she thought,
and decided to paint it
before she forgot.

Still, she looks around,
wondering
if it were
a real person.

​Who is a poet?

​Someone who has mastered

the skills of creative writing?

Yes.

​Someone with the gifts

of vivid imaginations?

Yes.

Who else ?

​ Anyone

who is bold enough

to share their emotions

with the world.

If you have a broken heart,

you try to collect the pieces

and fix them together,

hoping it will heal someday,

hoping you will find yourself again.

But

when the hammer of hate

crushes your heart like a rock,

turning it into grains of sand,

and the wind of mistrust

scatters it all around—

how do you collect yourself?

How can you try and fix yourself?

Can you ever be whole again?

Running after money,

running after name,

running after fame,

running after this,

running after that.

Why can't they just walk?

Young or old,
poetry is for all.
Some write soft,
some write bold,
sometimes cold.
Yet they are all
treasures like gold,
never to be sold.

I don't hate you

for leaving me

with a broken heart.

I  hate myself

for letting you

do that.

A friend asked me
how to write poems
that would reach people's heart.

I replied," Open the floodgates
of your emotions and let it flow.
Your poems will touch
every heart."

"Move on," you said.
How? You forgot to tell.

"Forget the past," you said,
as if it were possible.

I watch the world go by,
yet still I stand
where I was left.

How do I move on
when the mind is clouded
and the heart
has gone silent?

Perhaps try to do
the next best thing —

to be there for someone,
to spread a smile,
to lend a helping hand,
to be a friend
in need.

You asked me
the reasons to be
thankful for this life.

Yes, maybe I should be thankful
for not finding myself in a war zone,
for having a good education,
a roof over my head,
a job to pay the bills.

But I never had
the life I truly wanted,
not a single dream
ever came true.

So, I am not
​thankful for the life
​I got to live.

Questioning myself —

what becomes of all the

dreams that remained

unfulfilled?

Lisa was very smart,
always checks
the weather forecast
before going out.

Over breakfast,
she turned on the radio
to listen to the Monday’s forecast:

“Heavy to very heavy rain,
with thunder and lightning.”

She smiled,
“oh, thank you!”
left her umbrella,
put on sunglasses,
and went to work.

One word —

You spoke once

I
live
it

every moment.

A pen and a paper
lying on the table.

The paper asked the pen,
“Why don’t you write?”

The pen replied,
“I’m not motivated.
I don’t know what to write.”

The paper said,
“Write a love letter.”

“Why?” asked the pen.

The paper replied,
“Because I want to be kissed.”

The pen couldn’t stop laughing
and fell off the table.

Heart is not a safe,

it holds no treasure

to replace.

It is a sacred place

what lies within

remains forever sacred,

irreplaceable.

I miss you everyday

but

I miss myself more.

My alien friends,

if you someday

visit me on earth

will you please

bring me

a few bright blue stars?

Clouds of pain

cover the wounds

of the heart.

Innocent tears fall

like gentle drops

of rain.

The white fluffy clouds

gently float in the endless sky

every time I look up

I see a different image

the artist in it creates

to my delight.

​Parakeets arrive,

munch starfruits delightfully,

bid a loud goodbye.

Poets come.

Poets go.

Poems remain—

left behind for someone

to read,

to admire,

and

to inspire

the next generation

to pick up the pen.

There exists an ocean

of words—

beautiful and meaningful.

Yet, sometimes

someone finds

just one word,

powerful enough

to turn a life

upside down.

A thousand lights illuminated

in my heart

when I fell in love.

Every day felt like

a celebration

of life

till it all ended.

Emotions buried deep
within the heart,
like molten magma.

When the heart
can’t hold anymore,
it erupts —
like a volcano.

Poetry starts flowing,
unstoppable,
like rivers of lava.

When lovers die,

where does their love go?

Can anyone find it,

or is it lost forever?

Flowers bloom

only for a while,

teaching us

to value life.

They bloom

to remind us

to smile,

when we forget.

A girl child
when born
to a family

is

either
seen as

a

burden to be
disposed of

or

too precious a treasure
kept hidden for protection

but

not once considered
as a human being.

If you choose

to be a student

anyone or anything

           can

be your teacher.

Hello, I am Blue,

and I’m in love with you.

I wrote this song, brand new,

only for you.

I love every shade of blue—

it reminds me of the vast sky

and the deep ocean,

just like my love for you.

Last night I dreamt of you,

hope my dream will come true.

Or else

I’ll always remain blue.

Tears fall silently,

remembering the departed,

sadness surrounds me.

Monsoon brings in rain,

farmers rejoice in delight,

awaits good harvest.

I thought I knew darkness,

until I saw it in your heart.

How beautifully

you pulled the light

out of my life

           like
      
              a

      black hole.

If someday you

break a glass

Remember —

        you

once broke a heart

"In the end

everything will be fine."

Maybe it will.

But, in the end

will it even matter?

The world is the same

for you and for me—

What we see

depends on

where we stand.

Another star wiped out

from the horizon,

leaving behind

a permanent void.

The cruel hands of death

took you away from us

leaving us in shock

and with teary eyes.

You will not sing again,

you will not speak again—

your voice has gone silent now.

But we will keep

singing your songs.

Your heartfelt songs

will now become

melodious memories.

You will live on

through your songs.

In our memories,

you will live on.

When the storm inside

keeps tearing you apart,

how do you stay calm?

How do you not fall apart?

Don't come back

breaking another's heart

stay where you are

no matter how much

it breaks my heart

I will not take you back.

After a while
I opened my sketchbook.

Holding the pencil
again felt so good.

I sketched the face
of a random girl—
it wasn’t very good,
yet it felt right.

It reminded me
of a lost love.

Art—
my first love.

Do we want world peace?
  Yes.

Can we have it?
  Yes.

How?

It’s simple.
Pack all our beloved, war-loving world leaders
and drop them off on Mars.
Let them fight there
to their heart’s content.

We shall have peace on Earth.

My heart was free

like a bird in the wild

you trapped it in your

prison of love

      and

when the prison

felt like home

you let it out.

Now it is lost

like the caged bird

set free —

no more caged

yet, never free.

I write—
neither for name
nor for fame,

but to remain sane,
for I fear
I may go insane.

Too much hurt,
endless pain—
the heart can
only hold so much.

Words are my gateway
to release what I
hold inside.