Personification

Rain,
Why do you have to fall,
Don’t you want,
Like the rest of us,
To keep on flying high,
Travelling to places,
Fallen angels never can,
Are you tired,
Like beautiful stewardess,
Of meaninglessly bouncing around the sky,
Have your fuels burned out,
Like a hot air balloon,
Or is it just gravity,
Breaking you up.

I hear that you were cloud once,
And the sea,
Who did you enjoy being better?
Perhaps none, that’s why
you are always crying?
Or perhaps unlike us who always want
something bygone or something to come,
you are happy even to be falling,
Taking plunge as they say,
Hitting it head down,
Mixing with the sea, mud, river,
Burning to be a cloud again,
Never fantasising nirvana,
Never getting tired of cycles,
Just making a perfect story of your own…

Woe of words

I am constantly slashing words away,
I wrote yesterday and I wrote today,
It has gone for as long as I remember,
And it feels good to write,
I write to feel the God in me,
I write to fill me with God,
When I have pen and paper,
I write and then I chisel my words too,
Always a slash here and slash there,
And when my poem is all patched up,
and dainty, I read it aloud to my lover,
Who doesn’t see the suffering I inflict,
On my little verse,
I punch the keys on my keyboard sometimes,
The chiselling is more surgical,
And its only me and the poem sharing secret,
Of what transpired between us,
Long after when i have nearly forgotten,
The poems haunt me in my dreams,
Because I didn’t even read them aloud to my lover,
So I wake her up at 2 am at night,
Taste the lingering sleep on her forehead,
Make a cup of tea and bake a cake too,
And then read the haunted poem,
The justice half done,
I curl up with her and we sleep,
I sleep in peace,
The God but beckons me at difficult times,
Sometimes I have nothing to put the words on,
But I write anyways,
I write in the crevices of my brain,
The slashing more metaphorical,
Going on subconsciously,
Snapped and shaped by viscious knives in darkness,
These fleeting couplets,
Only stick as images,
The words too deep to recall,
Too unstable to bring forth,
The poem that’s made,
Cries deep down,
His pleads laughed at by the God who summoned them,
And I, the device, the corporeal culprit,
Can only empathize,
And keep on writing,
And slashing,


Too much sugar it’s starting to hurt

Oh the beauty that you are,
So bounteous,
Amidst of course,
Fakes and bad replicas,

Do you like what I have made of you,
How I have taken you apart,
and flung out into the world,
For everyone to behold,

Or do  you dream often,
become nostalgic,
of the times,
it was difficult to get hold of you,

Where one good song cost not just money,
Not just time and manner of typing not even words,
But symbols in google,
Where you had to wrench your soul to find it,
To get hold of it,
Where a book meant more than a book,
Where it was a culmination of perfect happenstances,
And running your fingers through the spines,
Made your heart stop for a while,

Now everything is sprawled out in the open,
And I can't decide, 
If you are still there,
Or cooped somewhere,
When I see a beautiful woman,
Naked, smoking cigarettes with her perfect fingertips,
In a R rated movie,
When the most amazing music,
Becomes an anthem of terrorists!

Unwinding

An unopened gift,
An unmet person known by voice,

A cat in closet,
alive and dead at once,

The freshly minted moment,
The taste of dish never heard,

Sometimes ignorance or dementia,
Beats concrete memory,
Everything is possible, isn't it?
Before the mystery bleeds outside,
And you know,
the gift was something you already had,
the person was someone you knew,
the cat was already dead,
and the moment a mere repetition of past...

Average

Yes,

There was no reason for you,

To meet me, to be with me,

And not be wanting,

I was not the most handsome person,

I was not the brainiest either,

I was not black and I was not white,

I was grey and I had grey tendencies,

If you turned me to a marble and rolled me among others,

I would get lost in front of your eyes,

So yes,

There was no reason for you,

To stay when you realized,

How average I was,       

How commonplace my beliefs were,

How common I was in my goodness,

And how so typical in my badness too,

I am not being sarcastic,

I love you after all,

I am just letting you know,

That the reason you gave,

For leaving me is infallible,

I am an average,

You were the googly handed to me,

I kept on being an average,

And you wound past me,

The way you came,

You kept your resentments,

And I kept my average pride

Omniscient Cigarettes

Smoke from my last stub,

Passes through me,

Dissolves in my senses,

Gives me something,

Takes something away,

Perhaps, the taste of my soul,

Tired and tender,

And leaves me,

To go places I never can,

Down through the cracks of my door,

Through the layer of concrete lies,

And reaches,

People I never knew,

Knowing them the way,

Their silent partners laying next to them,

Naked,

Never will,

Knowing you maybe,

The way you never,

Allowed me to know…

Mist

Every morning,

I woke up and hoped,

That the mist would clear,

From life and reveal,

Mountain, full of mighty promises,

I woke up and woke up,

Ignoring tight fuzzy dreams,

Never saw a clear morning,

Then this morning,

When I woke up,

Freshness was a little fresh,

Cold air and warm world,

I did not see mountains,

But fell in love with mist,

Accepting without resigning?

I fell in love with it,

The beautiful, mysterious, ignored one,

The lovely mist,

Who needed mountains,

Nothing but mounds of snow,

When something so dreamy,

And so abundant,

Never left my mornings!

Proposal

I’m sitting in front of you,

My eyes are caked with crystals,

Of sugar,

You poured from your lips,

You smell,

Of freshly cut ginger mixed with orange peel,

From this distance,

A few inch away,

My senses have never been,

Lulled and happy,

Questions of existence,

Have burst like soap bubbles,

My actions have been stripped off their pretentions,

My voice has lost it’s nervous flutter,

All because of you,

Sitting in front of me,

In some obscure time and palce,

Veiled by the memory of self,

Cocooned away,

From their plasticine gadgets,

You keep on staring at me,

From behind those dark eyes,

Which sometimes become,

The color of full moon,

Freshly out of god’s pizzeria,

I know the words won’t fail me,

The awkwardness won’t impale me,

You hand me your hand,

Like offering a cashmere scarf,

As though I could wear you,

Over my skin,

What me, becoming you?

Turing my accumulations,

Things that I’ve called mine,

To you?

Like sharing my password,

To get yours,

You taste my hesitation,

And tease me,

You know what I’ll do,

You always know..

Not a poet

Don’t you call me a poet,

Not yet,

Call me one when my words,

Stir up your soul,

And lift your spirit,

My words are not that potent,

Not yet

Call me a poet,

when my poems age like wine,

When they seem truer,

As you and I grow older,

I have never written something like it,

Not yet,

Or I’ll tell you myself,

When i know that I’ve written one,

When the words will start,

To come from untapped depths,

Like dreams,

Like forgotten memories,

When I could cry while writing sad poems,

And burst with joy while writing happy ones,

Until then, don’t you call me a poet,

I’ve not become one,

Not yet

Start

You and I,

We both have history,

Written in ink of time,

Protected from our present,

We can pretend,

To start,

But not with a clean slate,

We need to make do,

with what we have,

by default,

You with your pretty face,

I with my gawky handwriting,

Trying to carve our names,

In bark of time like trees,

Seemingly strong,

But vulnerable,

I have torn a few pages for you,

Maybe you have prepared to say,

that you’ve torn your heart too,

which i obviously don’t believe,

It’s not a fresh start,

We have a history, remember?

But it’s a start,

of sorts…