Category: poetry

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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.
 

Poem #4 – Innocent Rambling

If I were a painter
I’d have turned a blank canvas into multitude of colors,
Mingled perfectly in the shape of your smile and the dimple on your cheek.
I’d have drawn the moon that rises from the clouds below
and hides itself into the clouds above,
with that I’d have drawn my overwhelming heart – joyous and meek.
I’d have sketched my soul dancing with yours in the middle of the sea,
I’d have painted tides – high and low, treading on them, setting my spirit free.
On gloomy days I’d have painted the walls with windows on them
and the entire landscape with birds chirruping  on dancing trees.
I’d have sketched the weary eyes of an old man looking at the road map,
A joyful lad boasting his beginner’s luck, short-sighted on life,
And then a man selling fruits and a woman smiling wide.
Oh but my luck! I can’t paint! I can’t use the brush and paint the tides,
I can’t move my brush and trace the right curves of your smile,
I can’t draw your dancing soul and my demon by your side,
I can’t fill the colors of agony, of love, of wonder, of freedom,
and I can’t paint the starry nights.
So, with a heavy heart and twisted words I sit down and write.

Who are we?

The fight doesn’t stop,
The fright doesn’t go away,
Who are we? Soldiers or Tyrants?
We are being dictated names,
Printed on our badges.
Is that our new identity?

I think we are blind,
The colors are too bright.
Orange, orange everywhere,
Green, green everywhere,
Together they form Red.
Isn’t it sad?
Our blindness and our pride together?
Are we doomed, doomed for life?
Who are we? Nationalist or Extremist?

Isn’t it sad, there’s no ONE God?
It must be hard for God to identify himself!
Am I Allah or Krishna or Christ?
Stuck in the everlasting plight.
Who are we? Humans or Castes?

We are dangerous, ignorant creatures.
Like Dodos we follow,
Let’s call dusk morning now!
Dusk is morning! Dusk is morning!
You say Defame! We’ll defame,
You say Kill! We will kill,
You say Praise! Hell, we’ll praise.
I think we’ve turned into parasites.

Who are we?
Children of God?
God deserted his earth long time ago!
We are pitiable creatures,
Ready to eat our own flesh.
I don’t see Orange beneath Orange, do you?
Because when the river flows,
It bleeds Red.

Who are we?
Who are we?
We are nothing.
Insignificant in this vast universe,
On mercy of one smite.

 

 

Poem #3 – Masquerade Reaper

He kept a mirror in his pocket,
They told me, how he was pure evil.
How he could make the prettiest face look ugly,
How he fed on the shallow souls – the kind that
looked divine. Oh, dear God! Never did I anticipate –
The faces behind the faces, the mockery behind the smile.
His mirror reflected all.

People wouldn’t see him in the eye. People – they run away,
They always run away.
They build their walls and they decorate their stage.
I had heard so much about him, I was indeed intrigued to see,
If he could separate reflections from hypocrisy.
People are hypocrites, they keep the blame game on,
Hiding behind the silhouette, all the colors that they don.

Fascinated enough, I went to meet my demise,
To see what I looked like in this Masquerade Reaper’s eyes.
He flashed the mirror and it shined so bright,
My eyes shut, and he walked me through the light.
I opened my eyes, I didn’t like what I’d seen,
The face behind my face, which has always been.
I laughed at my ignorance to think that people change, they grow –
They only learn to hide things that they should not show.

Poem #2- Deathbed

As I live confined to this room, rested on something cozy,
I get the glimpses of dawn turning to dusk.
Sometimes, the raindrops sneak in through the window,
touch me gently and dry out.
I see the clock ticking,
She was afraid of the clocks. I remember, she had once told me.
Perhaps it reminded her of her insignificance-
Of how time passes by and she can’t turn a leaf.
She would sometimes stare at the clock and would sob in fear.
I could never fathom her emotions to be honest.
She used to keep me beside her, all the time, never letting me go;
She would keep me so close to her bosom that I once nearly died.
She would sometimes murmur ” With every flip of pages, characters evolve,
characters die, or meet their happy endings. Then days go by and I prepare
myself to meet a new character. Same place. Different time. ”
I remember, she had held me so close, I could hear her murmurs.
I coughed, I was suffocated and that gave her jitters,
She for once, unleashed me.
I for once, breathed free.
And two seasons passed, I was in the air.
Then she called me back. She told me, she had lost hopes.
I was there, pinned to her pocket. Leashed again.
I asked the reason for her pain,
She wouldn’t say a word.
She and I lived there, in silence, in monotony.
She kept flipping pages, sobbing at nights,
Fearing the time.
I stayed pinned to her heart and mind.
And one day I saw her lifeless in bed.
I saw the rush and the havoc, silently I cried in her demise.
I heard the whispering, “heard she committed suicide!”
Nobody saw me, they never knew me, so they threw me aside.
As I saw her being taken out of the room,
It wasn’t hers, I realized.
No, it was my deathbed. Mine. Just mine.
As I live, confined to this room,
unpinned from her. I just look at myself as an unfulfilled dream,
She never let me go, she never tried.
And with her, I (her dream) died.