"copybooks" poems
To the Days I Felt Safe:
For those who
Tie knots around their necks,
With words they once heard
Sound fancy enough they choke upon their diction
You do not belong.
For those
Whos hands wave
And voices shiver,
To cover the emptiness of their words
You do not belong.
For those who-
Sit in corners
And draw airplane in their minds,
And create universes
So that their little airplane can find
A reason to fly;
And by the end of the day in school
They would learn that,
Black holes are never darker that the pits of our day dreamt creations,
And moons cannot reflect
All the rays of imagination
A little kid dives in,
Each day,
Sitting in corners,
Inspired by the spirals
On the edges of his copybooks
Because what’s in the middle of the page
Was never his concern;
He did not belong.
For those who paint their dreams
Red blue and green
On the back of their veins
While their skin is dead pale
You do not belong.
For those who find difficulties reading,
And find haven in short words
And in pauses after sentences
And in deaths after paragraphs,
And find heaven when no text book is open
You do not belong.
For those who can love
Hard enough to call it love
You do not belong-
I do not belong.
For those who are tired of their deafening surroundings,
The fruitless noises
Of teenagers who forgot how to think,
Their voices that shatter
Like ultra-violet rays
Hitting ozone layers;
Who are tired of loved ones that fail to realize,
That the beauty of their souls
Rises and falls
Twists and turns
And burns to the core of my heart,
Till it bleeds
Verses of spoken word poetry
Of words unspoken,
You do not belong.
And belonging is relative
And death- is partial,
For social circles squeezed too tight
That it’s too hard to breathe,
And our egos grew too wide
We forgot who we really are
Although we’re full of ourselves.
But our imagination; takes us away
Till we realize
How far we are
From who we could be.
Nov 30, 2013
Nov 30, 2013 at 8:42 PM UTC
* Waiting: Her spread legs rest upon layered lacquer::: the tides of her hips arch high, press and point needle North, in a nascent newborn lust
she is infectious in her descent... she draws down, slowly South... unaware I see her there... I am frozen, wanting only to crawl toward the taste
the hammer of my heartbeat plays silent symphonics, she holds herself, moaning, to the sounds of a harbor rhythm:::
i make my way toward her
this man's approach is unique.
Calculating the quiver of anticipation::: **the man is instinct, the man
grows hypnotized**.
The pendulum::: the zig zag::: our protagonist reads her inner thighs.
The vine of his attraction now extends to where those thighs meet.
She is ready.
Jan 17, 2019
Jan 17, 2019 at 11:17 PM UTC
As you entered the room
stirring air with suppleness of walk
waking up the stillness with jingles of cymbals
making curtains dance to the sound of bangles
aroma wafted into air from canvas and copybooks
my paintbrush grew restless
and pen became enraptured
my eyes, hands and other parts
became electrified.
My heart spread rainbow in the room
like colours of youth and
lilts of life's melodies.
You who are sitting before me
have the power to
change my consciousness
into painting, poem, melody
or anything else!
I know you'll speak no truth at this time.
I've to be guided
solely by your silence, your eyes and
the inaudible appeals of your heart.
I've to settle before I lose the presence of mind-
whether I should use brush or pen
or my eyes, hands or something else
and create a unique
composition
all in you.
-०-
Jun 9, 2025
Jun 9, 2025 at 6:16 AM UTC