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.

The hearts that can’t console

She never spoke much. I remember
her subtle relapses in the past,
like she was alone and had no one around her,
amidst the gazing eyes, poking her and asking
if she was Okay.
I wonder how she must have felt. Blurred, maybe?
They talk of love as an unbearable pain,
if it isn’t meant to be.
They say it takes a heavy toll,
the one you can’t pay.
They say the pain is worth it,
if it’s all happy in the end.
If it’s not? What if it’s not?
I would look at her and would turn away.
That’s what I do, I turn away.
This winter is too cold, am I too cold?
I wouldn’t know.
Her sadness would deepen sometimes,
I wouldn’t know, I turn away.
I once wanted to be there for someone,
and wanted to tell her, it’ll be okay.
I couldn’t. They tell me, I couldn’t have done much
for I was a kid. How do you convince your guts?
Now nothing’s the same.
I would sometimes see her laughing out loud,
her laughter would cry its heart loud,
It was there, I could see it.
I saw a kid once, trying to entertain people by telling stories.
Nobody laughed. He sat down a little later,
He didn’t like it and I stood there looking at him,
never telling him his stories were good and I enjoyed them.
It could have made him smile, but I turned away from him.
Once she told me about her sadness
and I couldn’t muster the right words;
She must have thought of me as apathetic.
Once I laughed at someone’s misery.
It just came out of nowhere!
I was deeply saddened within… was I?
I was. I was. I know, I was.
People would imagine me cruel.
I’d like to know if he is doing fine,
for I feel he is not.
But I will never say a word,
I don’t do that.
I laugh with her all the time,
that is something I can do.
I can laugh. I laugh.

Dear Visitors

My Twitter account got hacked. I apologise for any inappropriate tweet that you might have seen on the blog. I had been completely unaware of it until today.
Thanks to a friend, I was able to deactivate it on time (maybe).

Thanks, Neha! 😀


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.