The Lady

Only more words can silence the storm that words begin

The Poet In Me

The poet in me calls out
To the honed finesse of words
I want written in woody pages
Articulation of the my buried tumults
Inspired, in me a devotion
For the chords I feel stringed
Unsealed, my glued fingers
So I may find faith
In the blots of ink stain
That I make on paper.
My bosom cornucopian be made
So it lets out eternally
The pageants in stacks
Resting in slumber on the canvas of my heart..

Only then will the poet in me
Find utterance.

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My figure, like deadwood
Lay on the mattress
How many hours has it been?
The clock says five thirty
So, two.
Why do I still not wanna wake up
This lethargy will bring me down
My best friend had lent me
Some wise words
Telling me how I shouldn’t while away my days
Just like that
Time is precious
I shouldn’t spend it wailing
I get scared and open a book
Read about the murder of a priest
Five pages give me satisfaction
Tell me of details of some investigation
And I keep it aside
Figuring what to do next
My friends start playing a movie
I decide to stare at it for a bit
I don’t know what weighs me down
Keeps me from activity
And I decide to articulate it
Find words to describe my being
And I settle on ‘the settled mud’
My best friend laughs at me
Mocks me saying what have I done to earn that
I don’t get what she says but I guess
That more sleep will cure it
Though my behind hurts from sitting and sleeping
Too much
I don’t know what other posture I should choose
I stare at the ceiling in the dark
For what I know was too long
Until my lids decided to call it a night.

Through My Window


Through my window
I do see
A wild expanse of greenery
It’s not as pleasant
As I would have liked
But there are a few marvels indeed:

A skinny old woman
And a street dog that’s not hers
Who stays by her side
While she sleeps
I think she looks sad
Although I cannot see

There are herds that come
With a dark – skinned boy
They feed on grass
While he sits and toils
Inside his mind is a girl
Who’s too pretty for him
And maybe wealthier
He wonders, maybe, of consequences
How a shepherd falls for such a girl
And can still dream of being happier

There’s a sorrowful tree
With its boughs bent
Leaves dry and bark sapless

Through my window
If I look up
A patch of blue looks down at me
The clouds make faces – some do smile
But birds disturb the sight in between

I grab my pen and a page
And I decide to write a happy poem
About the literal highs and lows of the world
The vast sky and the telluric scent of earth
And of the lives it holds.



Beauty is a sadness;
All beauty is menacing
And fore-ordained to be lain waste
There’s no awe in shattered monuments
Only forlorn eyes watching the force
Within themselves laying marble to dust.


Where The Sharp Steel Awaits


Have you ever walked barefoot
On torrid sands the way love should
Borne the pain it left
And yet, were willing to walk some more?

Have you ever known the future
Known how it would desecrate the sand castles
You built with hope and passion
And still wanted to see them crumble beneath his foot

Have you never been mad enough
To believe in love
To be reckless to hurt yourself
And cut a vein with his sharp words

Would you call it a crazy dream
If I decide today
To walk away
From lively enterprises
And sought to reach that time and place
Where the sharp steel to stab awaits



I am a flute

Blow your rhythm into me

Fill me with a soul

I am all but empty without your note

Place delicately your hands on my flaws

Where I am hollow, complete me.

Attune my body to your soul’s song

And make us one

Beating together through the tips of your fingers.


Wrong Pieces


You loved me undeniably
But I wish humans were made happy creatures
And so here I am
Fighting, fidgeting with our fates
Trying to forge a destiny
We both could agree with
I have been trying hard
Since sometime
To complete this puzzle
As if it was a child’s test to pass
I have made it too adorable
With my conjuring hands
But I can’t find a way to complete it
Not because I am not adept with puzzles
But because I am trying to fit the wrong pieces

I wish I could find
The last piece
The perfect fit

Oft The World


Oft I wonder how to play the ruse
That the world throws at me every now, every then
For oft it seems a bleak tomorrow
Is what I’m seeking with how I’m playing.
Oft it gives happiness
More sorrow than happiness
And oft I try to fool the world
And fool myself
For oft i feel suicidal
Prepared to give in
And succumb to hurt
For I can’t find things inspiring
But oft the beautiful butterfly flies in
Who once was an ugly caterpillar
And tells me the age old truth I oft forget
Good things come to those who wait.

When It Starts

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When it begins, it is like those flames you’d kill to burn in and when it ends, it is like you got Parkinson’s.

Holy Sin


Coming forth, treading back

Over and over

Because we don’t know what’s so wrong in something so right

Letting the fiery passion take over

And then letting go

Because making love is making bed with carbon black petals of roses

It’s so dark, our need

But hold on

There is no shame, none.

Don’t let your virtues take your soul

Because your soul is mine to cherish

And mine is yours to keep

Don’t let our nights be empty holes of stinging pain

Because baby you forget

We’re not lone sinners

And it’s a sinful world.


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