if reality blazed like words i wrote,
i would have turned to ashes already,
reality is a plateau,
while words rise and fall,
its too easy to suffer acutely with penstrokes,
while real pain erodes slow into blandness,
I feel hard to feel things i explain,
Its a manner of sailing upstream,
I wish I could respite over pedestal that are my words,
I wish I could summon their true strength,
I wish I could love you the way I said I do, I wish I could be hurt the way I told myself I was, In the purity that are my words, I wish I could mix them in the bitter raki of my reality, And drink away an ounce of cloudy daydream
a betrayal
When betrayal hits you hard,
even if its a shard,
you yourself can give,
have given, you believe,
Does it give you an edge,
to take the pain off the ledge,
Or does it overpower you,
because there is nobody to shift blame onto,
but the heart that knows the ache,
Do you drown yourself in grief you can’t shake,
in flood of emotions you can’t palpate,
a lot of hurt and anger and cigarette,
Or do you bend like a tree,
and let time soak up the debris,
Would you then become a lousy insomniac ,
Or become a rowdy amnesiac?
A poem for you
I want to write a poem just for you,
You who have toiled so much,
You who deserve so much than you have,
I want to write something to make up for it,
Though I already feel I am failing hopelessly,
You who I love so much, You who love me so much,
How did that even come to pass, this , between us,
How did I get so lucky, and how you became so complacent,
I want to write a poem for your humility,
Do I write in rhymes, chiselling corners, to reflect your perfection,
Or do I write without restraint, flinging away tempo and rhythm,
for the chaos you are,
I want to write a poem just for you,
To make you feel your light,
To let you know the things about yourself,
Invariable golds and diamonds in you,
And I promise I will write till I have poured every word i know, till my fingers have bled,
to write such a poem, If i can,
oh, only if I can…
Nights
I love nights more than days,
Days are dusty and noisy,
They show everything so bright,
Contour of love dissolving in clutter,
With no room for subtleties,
Days fill cowards with bravado,
And trample beautiful spirits and ghosts,
Days are nature’s greatest hypocrisy,
Rendering false significance,
Nights, now these are different,
they chisel away pretentions,
Bring away real meat of reality,
Colors morphing away into shapes,
Shapes turning into sounds,
Welled up emotions bubbling in crazily,
Men slumbering, stars finally sighing light,
Sun, a hydrogen lie finally knowing its place,
And I, praying and praying,
For the show to linger on,
A poor man’s dream!
Resolutions
To taste the flavor of hunger,
And to celebrate the pang of loss,
To be loved by noone,
And to work out the boredom,
To be haunted by freedom,
And to listen to silence,
To drink an empty cup,
And to travel nowhere,
To dream a dreamless sleep,
And to have a dry shower,
To cry without tears,
And to laugh without sound
Fishy
All these images rollicking in my brain, Like school of restless fish, Most of the time are too swift to catch, Light wouldn’t be that fast, Sorry Einstein! But sometimes, I do catch them, Like one would catch an eel with bare hands, It is just for an instant, I get a feel for those images, How they contort, how they make no sense! Like a bicycle with no front wheel , Something I have never seen before, Something I have never imagined too, Unstable, unusable. And then there is this. I, pretending to be a fisherman, Sitting in my table, in front of my notebook, Biting on gory tip of a half chewed pencil, Trying to catch the fish I could show to you, To impress you, to satiate you, This setup, this chair, table, paper, pencil, And three half spent cigarettes on ashtray, My fishing nets, To trap some images, Vivid enough to transform into a metaphor, And the bait, My own suffering!
Love
Sometimes, it’s just enough to know that we love someone. Without whispering into their ears, without any message inside a corked wine bottle. We can even let it sink inside ourselves and let it die with us. Never uttering lover’s name in sleep, never writing their name on palm. So that no one knows. Love has roads carved beyond what one sees. There is a boundary which we call life and there is love which sometimes crosses genders, sometimes crosses species, and crosses worlds. I loved an egg shaped stone once. She was smooth and she tasted like river. She was older than me and knew things that I would never know. She felt cold in my hands but if I kept her long enough, she yielded to my heat. Then as fate would have it, I lost her. I can only hope that someone else has found her. Or him. It’s better to not define love. You get too technical and will start spouting about neurotransmitters and electricity. Or you get too detached from reality. Then the madness becomes love. But love is neither. Or is either. A sum of everything. Chemicals buzzing in head. Comfort and pain in the heart. A non linear spiritual experience. And more. It may be a lie. But it feels like the truth. Like fiction?
A turn
I saw a romantic who was not me, She was dreaming pink dreams, Which were the color of my dreams too, She longed for connection, She wanted to do things that always sound good, Like dancing in the rain, Like prancing in Paris, Like a midnight candle, And an afternoon cigarette, Things which are empty, Things which are hollow, But nice She was my muse, The angel of my dreams, The light of my life, The proverbial soulmate, I knocked on her door, Three knocks for three words, And went away…
Intentions
I don’t want to carve the words,
That look beautiful without meaning to make them so,
I want to infuse my intentions into them,
Let them stink of refusal if I am refusing them,
Let them be what I want them to be,
If I don’t mean the words I write,
Let their meaning be rendered useless,
And if I do mean to write that I love her,
Oh lord, let her see the notes of music,
In the chaos of words,
Let her memories stir and her heart leap,
Between the jagged lines I write for her,
Let the ether spanning me and you,
Not be trapped in confines of expression,
Let it tremble with intentions,
That are not even conscious,
Let my poetry dig it’s own grave,
Let it decay and rot under the earth,
To serve as a humus,
For the truth about me,
And a little about you too…
Un-addicting
I stand over the ledge,
smoking cigarettes
that cost ten bucks apiece
thinking about
how little drag I am feeling
and how I am exhaling the smoke,
from my mouth than my nose,
laughing at myself for thinking like that,
Guess meditation is doing it’s job afterall,
Note note and don’t judge,
I also think of Patrick Melrose and thing he says
About getting out of addiction,
People making so much fuss about leaving this leaving that,
When in truth it is just as easy,
As putting one in your mouth,
The act of putting it in a dustbin,
So I tell myself,
That I could put this cigarattee,
Into the dustbin,
It’s not doing anything anyways,
Why make cancer smile,
But I continue to smoke anyways,
And by the time nausea hits me,
There is nothing to discard,
But stray bits of tobacco,
That couldnot hit the roll.
theinvertedpoetry 