#10 Odds won’t matter

Pluck all the leaves from the hydrangea
and feed your fantasy.
The truth will be in the hiding – and you, blinded.
Still stay foolish and choose all odds.
Eventually, we’ll know.
We won’t like what we’ll find,
And then the hydrangeas won’t matter,
The truth will be in the plain sight.
How will you console yourself then?



#9 – Split

To move to and fro, up and down,
back and forth and what not.
To keep coming back to same conversations,
Playing them on repeat and hating it.
Questioning your existence, and theirs.
Thinking if they don’t matter, then why?
To crave for peace and freedom,
To get out of the cage.
Who’s stopping you?
No one!
And yet here you are,
You read all those philosophies,
And you think you can relate.
You try to do what you think is right,
and then you are dragged back down to the same pit.
You know, they can’t force you,
Then why?
“Try indifference. It’s cold, but worth it.”
Your mind would say.
You know it all! You know, you need to let go!
Then why?
It’s pathetic really, to be this human.
Ugh! the stench of other miserable being,
Let go of them! let go of them!
“There has to be another world somewhere.”
Your mind would say.
Somewhere with fewer people, or none at all.
“It’s needed.”

#8 – About last night

And then to see the ceiling a bit too high,
To feel the floor sinking deeper,
And to be unaware of directions.
Insanely aware of  memories,
And unaware of their narration.
Waking up, adding two and two together,
Feeling the symmetry, and my head again.
I buried those memories,
And buried their narration.


There are circles in my mind,
And an angst, for I can’t sort them.
All the whiskey in the world won’t help,
My heart’s on fire but  bruised by treachery.
And love was all I had.
Seasons have passed,
and I can’t love again.
And if my mind erupts like a volcano,
I can drink in peace.

Poem #6: Hopeless Romance

Under the moon, I wonder if you’re looking at it too.
Hoping you’re listening to the same song that I am listening to,
Hoping, you look at me the way I look at you.
Someone once told me, “Hopeless romance is poetic.”
And I am a lover of poetry.
Is there any depth in unrequited love?
Or this hole in my heart is just a mirage?
Falling and failing, falling and failing,
does it end? Does it ever stop hurting?
To romanticize the idea of him,
To think of all that could be,
To write with my blood and sweat,
To stop my heart from beating my chest,
Does it stop?
I want it to stop.
I want to raise a wall so strong it can’t be tumbled down,
A fence so dense that it can’t be sneaked into,
I want to throw my heart in the corner and fill it with void,
A void so deep that it feels no emptiness.
But how will I ever write poetry then?
Someone once told me, “Hopeless romance is poetic.”
I am a lover of poetry, so I became one.
Isn’t it beautiful? Being a hopeless romantic?
I can imagine all sorts of things and believe them to be true.
Your smile,
Your laughter,
Your voice,
Your touch,
and weave them into words, make it a poem,
exploiting my emotions shamelessly,
sharing it with the world.
And hoping that you read it too,
Understand that it’s written for you.
Someone once told me, “Hopeless romance is poetic.”
I am a lover of poetry,
and my poetry is you.