Amaranthine; a blog of original poetry

 A puppy Abandoned with a chain around its neck. Too heavy For it to drag. Too heavy For it to move Anywhere For food, Water, Shelter from the sun. Crying. Tired of crying. Not crying anymore. Men in suits went by. Women in suits went by. Children in uniforms, On bicycles Went by. A beggar removed the chain To sell it for food. And the pup licked his feet Happily. The beggar. The dumb beggar, Thinking it was asking its chain back, Finding it cute, Put it back on its neck And left it Alone. Crying. Tired of crying. Crying no more...

 The walls darken Around switch boards. The cars splash mud On drying clothes, Again and again. Because clothes and walls Don't shout. They bare The sweat, The dirt, The mud. The walls wait To be painted in brighter colours Than they initially were. But we use the same colour Because we know it will look good, Until the switchboards darken. The clothes wait To be washed again And hung far from the road. But we hang them There itself, So that others can see That we wash clothes well, Until they get splashed on. Again.

 We are like glass bottles; Breaking apart if dropped, Yet coming out of fire with just black lines. We don’t care about fame. We just want to belong On a table, In someone's hand, In the fire. We don’t want to be dropped; That’s all. The black lines are okay, You were part of the fire while it lasted. A bullet to the chest is okay, You were part of the gang while it lasted. The tears are okay, She was yours while it lasted. We want to be alone and yet belong somewhere, Like the empty cup on a crowded table Which once had coffee and steam. We want to be alone and yet belong somewhere, Like the pendulum swinging Alone inside a tall clock Never opened to be adjusted in the winter. We want to be alone and yet belong somewhere, Like the butterfly on morning grass, Like the glass bottle in the fire, Coming out with black lines.

 We are Running taps, Loudspeakers in sound proof rooms, Apples thrown away after a single crunch. We are something To someone. A bucket should be placed below the running tap, The loudspeaker should be taken out, The apple will be eaten by something non-human. We are something to someone. We aren’t spoons without holders, Hand-less clocks, Broken bulbs wanting to give off light. We are neon lights Shining brightly; But the light not going far. We are neon lights And together we light the bars, Supermarkets, Broadway Brightly, But the light not going far; Yet bright enough to look good. Just bright enough To put a lonely man to sleep When combined with warm tea, Cool jazz And rain outside. Just bright enough to be beautiful.

 A tree with half eaten leaves; How irregular, How different, Yet how beautiful. It grabs attention Against all godly perfection; Perfect trees with perfect leaves and perfect wood. But this tree About to have it's leaves eaten completely, About to die without leaves Looks beautiful; Even beautiful after it dies. The dead tree will live on. Leaf-less Against the rising sun, Cutting more into the sun And yet letting more light through; With more birds sitting on its branches Looking for prey. The dead tree will live on. Leaf-less Against the rising moon, Cutting more into the moon And yet letting more light through; With more bats taking off from its branches Looking for prey. The dead tree will live on Through darkness and day.

 I drag the chair towards the window And sit there with my cat to watch the world without being seen. There is dirt, Fingerprints, A line of pigeon poop on the pane. But the light still comes in. I drink the coffee and replace the broken strings of my guitar. The light still comes in And it shows the dust around me, Around my guitar. What should I play? All I know are songs to be played in the night; Songs I weep to. So I keep it down and sit there, Looking for sadness in this bright world. I'll keep looking Until the neon begins to blink; Brightly, But the light not going far. I'll keep looking Until I find it.

 Sunlight falling through the exhaust On a broken bucket in the bathroom, The river roaring while it falls, A lad looking through a telescope at the house of a girl Who never comes out; Desolate, Going nowhere. Or so it seems. The sun will rise higher, And search for symmetric tiles. The river calms down, The boy will knock at the girl's door. The sun will light the fields And creep down through thick leaves, The river will reach the sea And meet more rivers, The boy will take the girl out for a coffee In a warm cafe with warm jazz And cool rain pouring outside. There will be more light, More water, More times together. The clouds may block the light, But the light will come. Rocks may bar the way, But the river will reach the sea. It will be awkward, But the boy and girl will kiss. Life is beautiful

A woman sat down near me in the train. She had a baby. It spat at me, Pinched me, Pulled my hair; And the mother apologized for it all. I said it was okay And kept looking at the little devil Trying to throw away the cloth that wrapped it; Trying to be free. It pointed a finger at me And said many things Even the mother didn’t seem to understand. Ha. And I call myself a poet. This is true poetry; Coming from the best poet I'd ever listened to. Yes, the baby was a true poet: Only it knows what it truly means By anything. Only it knows what it says when it points a finger At me. Yet I feel something, Yet I feel like it likes me, Like it enjoys my company, Like it wants to tell me Something small In a smaller way, Like it wants to tell me something It has learned so far. My soul understands that something Even though I can’t say it. That's what a poet really should do. I write crap And I still call myself a poet. But this is true poetry.

 A girl telling you she loves you; It is a rare thing that happened to me. I thought I was a dam, A rock, A ship with iron sails. But she dropped her anchor on my chest And I realized I was made of sand. I realized This island she has come to Needs her To clear the vines in the forest, To clear dead shells from the shore. And she needs the island. But the ship is still anchored on my shore. Will she Have the courage to push it To the mercy of the wind and sea? Will she Have the courage to say “I'm staying here. I want to go nowhere.”? She has to do it; She has to say it, To stay in my heart And clear the vines in it's forest And to clear dead shells off my shore. I need her Like the sand needs to sun to heat up, Like the gulls need the sea to catch food. I need you To stay.

 A parent Only seeing his child perform, Not realizing there are those that do better. A child Only seeing his parents Not realizing how messed up they are. We are blinded by what we know; And this knowledge does not come easy. The light that tickles the pond first falls on a leaf, The baby will kick the womb to emerge, The drinking man will vomit, And the women in heels will fall. Knowledge gained through pain, Through struggle, Through injuries to the soul. When knowledge is grabbed, We should know if it's a heavy rock, Or a balloon with helium. We should know if there is a root to hang onto In the quicksand; If there is enough depth to swallow us or not. But we do not care. Because we are blinded by what we know, And this knowledge does not come easy.

 Broken wine glass, Sunlight through trees, Neon blinking to die. Someone sits on a million dollar yacht Somewhere Thinking of suicide; Someone lies bloody on the street, Somewhere Thinking of revenge. Streetlights reflecting on broken glass like snow, The rubbish bin with bad words written in spray paint, With all the wrong spelling. The rubbish bin in which the dogs sleep like donuts; A man sleeps there too, With hope That people will be more generous to him tomorrow. And having hope is reason enough to live. One doesn’t need a million dollar yacht, One doesn’t need to take revenge. One doesn’t need Sunlight through trees, New neon lights, Wine. All one needs is hope. Hope is a tool of the desperate, The non-achievers, People who sleep on the street. The rich Can’t have hope. The gods Can’t have hope. The perfectionist Can’t have hope. So they commit suicide, rape, murder Despite having Wine, Sunlight through their trees, Neon signs for their shops, Windows. So they try to take away

 The days run away, And I chase them like a dog with a missing leg. I run, But all I catch are breaths; More of them. The days run away, And everything is Light on dry grass, Cup without a bottom, Playground without lines. I want to live But existing is tough enough. I fear that one day This dog might lose more than a leg. It could lose its tail under some heavy wheel, And not be able to show what it feels. And everyone will think he has lost The ability To feel.

 My grandma sits in front of the TV. But she doesn’t hear, Doesn’t read, Doesn’t understand. She makes out everything through sight, And she makes out everything wrong. But I am responsible too. She sees a villain with a gun And asks if he's a cop. I say “hmm” and shake my head. She sees two girls kissing And asks if one of them is a man in disguise. I say “hmm" and shake my head. She sees a car explode And asks if it's a war. I say “hmm" and shake my head. Then the questions stop coming As she closes her eyes And her head falls back into the sofa. I call her up And take her to her room. There is something beautiful about this; She'll sit there again tomorrow and ask me questions. I’ll say “hmm" and shake my head. There is something beautiful about this; Something beautiful In seeing and not understanding; Something beautiful In saying “hmm" and shaking my head. So we watch TV together Everyday.

 Head on the table, Omelette on a broken plate, Open windows, Night, Cold breeze, The flashing of distant neon signs. The quietness devours; And the bugs dance on the tube light like savages on fire To add flavour to the silence Like Roman numerals on the clock, Graffiti on the walls, Sprinklings on cake. The tea spills over the paper And the cold omelette drips to his feet Gently, Without waking him up. Let him sleep; He might wake up to a mess. So let him sleep some more In the lap of the breeze, The night, The silence.

 I stay awake in the night Chewing gum, Spitting, Chewing gum again. I stay awake in the night To write. They say you have the whole day. Yes you do; A whole day To listen to someone else, To speak for someone else, To be present for someone else, To write for someone else. But I want to write for me; I want to write poetry- Love letters to my own soul, Music score for my heart. So I chew more gum, I spit, And drink coffee again and again. And I take a walk  Through the veins in my heart, Through the misty paths of my soul. The veins may be throbbing in flowers, Or deadened by the cold. The paths may be drawn over mountains with vultures Or valleys with hungry wolves. But I walk through Without weapons, Without maps, Without hope. And I cry into my pillow Or laugh at the bug hurling itself into the lightbulb. I may lose a leg or kill a wolf; But I never let the vultures or wolves kill me. Broken Or in one piece; An adventure is an adventure. And my psychiatrist With a tumbleweed for a

 Society is shit. It doesn’t see the good stuff you do. But have one flaw, And you're dead. The flawed society expects it’s people to be perfect. Shitty colours don’t make a good painting, Until you rename it And call it modern art. Rusted iron does not make good sculpture Until you rename it And call it modern sculpture. Shitty people don’t make a stable society Until you rename it And call it modern society. Everything modern is shit Because it was made by old people Without asking the young What they wanted. Everything modern is shit Because the old used up the good stuff; The good iron, The bright colours; And left the remains for us, And told us to see in it the beauty That wasn’t there.

 The pigeons are here everyday. I now sit by the window, watching them. One pooped on my head yesterday; But I still sit here. They tell me more than  people ever will, Than books ever will, Than my fuckin' education ever has. Pigeon poop is injustice; My entire roof is covered by it, But I only wash it off If it falls on my head, If it makes me stink. By day, I watch these birds Make sounds, Make love, Make nests. By night, I still sit by the window With my cat And a can of warm soup, Steaming; And listen to jazz Coming from the bar below. And the rain, The rain Puts me to sleep Near the window. And the cat will stay in my lap, Resting.

 There is a smell in my room Which I notice only after returning to it After some time. It might be Those unwashed clothes, Piss on the tiles, A dead rat. But why do I care? We all do things to show others. We clean our rooms To show others it doesn’t smell. But who will come into my room Except me? And the smell has been there For a long time- So long, that it might not be Unwashed clothes, Piss on the tiles, A dead rat. It might be me, Rotting away within myself. Not bathing the body, Not wearing perfume. Not bathing the soul, Not searching if I even have a soul, If I can still love, If I can still look at the willows As a beautiful creation, Rather than a poor thing made to die, Like me, Like all of us. Can I still look at a child And smile? Can I still look at a kitten near the rubbish bin And ache? Can I still look at someone And make my soul believe That they too have problems? Can I feel anything? Anything Again? Anything other than This stink around me, Coming from me. Can I fe

I am a misfit; The last piece of tile That remains after the floor is done. Yet they try to fit me By breaking me into little pieces Of myself. No. I won't break; I don’t want to break. You'll search for me And not find me. Because I'll hide myself. There is no floor that can fit me. But people try to push me in Because they think I am beautiful, They think I am innocent, They think I won’t come out If I am squeezed in Tight enough. I hate society, I hate religion, I hate community, I hate being part of something, I hate being put into the floor For people to step on. So I’ll isolate myself On top of a mountain No one climbs And watch the floor from there.

 In the railway station Waiting for her; Lonely in the crowd. One person is enough To make one full. A crowd is useless. It is quiet; People just stare at their phones And so do I. But it’s still draining. People Hugging loved ones going for work, People With bags, suitcases, trolleys, A train starts from behind me. It’s all noise; Just noise to my troubled mind Until you come. It's just noise; Noise that I do not notice When you're around. I know We'll be travelling in different trains. I know We'll be travelling in different directions. But you're like bubble gum In my ears; Drowning the noise for a long time Until it comes out. But it will come out And the noise of the world will make me deaf. Then I'll need you again To deafen me to the world. I need you. All I want to hear is Your heartbeat, And the laughter of your soul. All I need is you.

If you sit in the front seat, I'll drive like a maniac. If you place a cake in the front seat, I'll drive like an old man. Isn’t it funny. I know You're alive and breathing. I know The cake is replaceable. Yet I drive carefully For the cake. We won't say it. But people like happiness More than people. And people like happiness More than being alive. But we preach differently; We preach lies. We say we'll care for others. We say we'll slow down for others. But we only slow down For the cake In the front seat And not the person.

 My clothes stink. I look like a street man, But I stay in a room With space, Light, Tap water. What do I lack? Maybe nothing. But I am lazy. Stuff left there Will remain there. The fused bulb  Will not be replaced. The clock which is ten minutes slow Will not be adjusted. We clean up stuff So that other people may see it neat. But who will come here? For whom should I clean this up? For me? No Let my room remain messy, So as to always remind me Of my messed up self.

 ‘Discard bottle after use' They write. But we keep on using them. Harmful For both bottle and drinker. Some people are the same. Meant to be discarded, Yet lingering on, Leading long lives. A discomfort To others And to themselves. They have no choice. God keeps drinking from the same bottle, Forgetting the words he himself imprinted on it. ‘Discard bottle after use.’ Maybe he hasn’t forgotten. Maybe he hasn't used the bottle enough. One day, the bottle will leak. And he'll have used the bottle enough. Then he'll throw it away. People leading long lives; They are bottles to be discarded, Used longer than they should be. Harmful For both bottle and drinker.

 Old man on the street. No address. No college education. No extra shirts, Trousers, Handkerchief. Only a stool and a guitar. Only music. The dirty kerchief with six coins. “Why can't he be like us?” They ask. Why can't he have An address, College education, Extra shirts, Trousers, Handkerchief; A clean one? No. That’s not what they're asking. They're asking, Why can't he get up early Without enjoying it? Why can't he have breakfast in a rush, Without enjoying it? Why can't he bath, dress, comb hair, Without enjoying it? Why can't he do some work He'll never enjoy? Why can’t he lead a miserable life He’ll never enjoy? They are jealous And talk ill about him. But he is happy. Because he is an old man in the street With no address. No college education, Extra shirts, Trousers, Handkerchief...

 Water dripping from air coolers, A small puddle without rain. The sweeper gathering plastic bottles, Movement without wind. The world is a lonely place. People step on puddles, Breaking the reflection of neon lights; Some set to blink, Others blinking to die. The world is a lonely place. A man sits at a table alone, Looking at the pouring rain, Pouring whisky into himself. A woman sits at a table alone, Looking at the man, Pouring whisky into herself. But the man Was still looking at the rain. There was something in the quietness, Something that gave joy For no reason; Something that clears the mind For no reason. The man Still looks at the rain. Water dripping, Water jumping to the table Through the gap in the window. The world is a lonely place. But it is lonely for a reason. It is lonely To make us happy in being alone. It is lonely To give us time to socialize With our soul, With the water dripping from the coolers, With the rain. The world is a lonely place For a reason.

 I am leaving But I will come. A lost oar  Should reach some shore, The freed parrot Will find a tree. Don’t waste your time For me, Don’t wait For me. The shore does not wait, The tree does not wait, But what has to reach it Will reach it. So don’t waste your time For me. Don’t wait For me. Drunk people sit around me To make me drink. And I do drink. I pour beer to wet the firewood, But it burns brighter now. I punched the bartender For too much froth on my drink. What you think is right. This isn’t me. I died without you. But I will come, And I will recognise you, And you won’t. Will you Still love me? Will you Still take me home, Give me bread with jam, And scented tea? If you don’t accept me, I am done. I will live this false self. You, Only you know how I really was, How I smiled, How I once punched you for fun, And it hurt. You, Only you know how I really was, How I cried When I left you. How I am crying, Not able to remember what I am. Please accept me, Or I’ll stay dead Forever

 Coming from work; Swinging my shoes somewhere, Leaving my pants On the floor, With the underwear in it. Lying in bed, Lying in bed All naked. Lying free for sometime, Feeling the ceiling fan Between my joints. It is the greatest feeling Any man could have. It is the greatest feeling Until you think why it's great. Then you'll understand What you've become. Then you'll understand The trap you've fallen into; This grave adored with flowers, So you won't smell yourself rotting. This grave adored with flowers, That suffocates you. Going to work, Taking burden; Coming from work, Releasing the burden  into thin air. Nothing new Comes from it. Nothing wonderful Comes from it. Nothing at all Comes from it. And you realise You never wanted this life. And you realise You never asked for life In the first place. But we still come from work And lie on the bed naked Alone.

 We switch on the lights And blame the bugs. It is always Someone, someplace, something else. We cannot go wrong, We are perfect. The fire spreads because of the wind, Not because we didn’t clean up dead leaves. And there is smoke because of the wind, Not because we lighted the fire In the first place. We die Because death takes us, Not because we invite him for beer. Death comes to us, We do not go to it Because we can do nothing wrong. We are perfect. There are wars, There are famines, Children dying on the street. But we did not kill them, We did not steal their crops. They gave it to us because they were dumb. Because we can do nothing wrong. We are perfect.

  We lie. We say our lives are fine. We say  We clean our room, We say We wash our clothes, Ourselves Everyday. We lie. We do not have the will To do these things. We curse things, And after cursing things, We curse ourselves. Because only ourselves will remain left to be cursed. It is tiring To smile at everyone. It is tiring To please everyone. We lie. But we don’t lie to hide the truth. We lie Because we don’t have the strength To explain the truth. We think people won’t care About us. We think people won’t cry With us. They won’t Because they are the same; They won’t Because there was no one To cry for them, To heal them. So we all hide ourselves. We lie, We lie.

 People Staying in rooms. Alone. Maybe with a cat. Blocking out the wind With closed windows. Blocking out the windows With dull drapes. To them, Sunlight Is an imposter. To them, Birdsong Is noise. Going out only for food For the cat, For themselves. “Selfish.” They say. “Selfish.” Living only for themselves. Living only for themselves. No, They aren’t selfish. They just Hate themselves. Hate themselves For not enjoying the birdsong, The sun. Hate themselves For not being able  To love To feel, To relate to The world Anymore. These poor souls were too good. Too good for this world. Too loving. Too giving. So the world shut them Inside a room. Inside themselves, And called them selfish. And the sun became an imposter, And the birdsong became noise. And the world continued to call them Selfish.

 Your heart hates itself. It hates what it has fallen for And not. Your heart hates itself. It hates it’s own beating, It's own life pulse. Your heart hates itself. But you don’t hear it cry When everyone is around. One realises the noise in the house Only after the power goes out. And then The noise stops And all the heart sees is the darkness around it- The darkness you put into it. The darkness you exposed it to. The noise stops And the heart will not beat Anymore. Because it hates It’s own pulse.

The soul empties the heart with a straw And leaves the ice cubes to melt alone. Then it vomits Because it didn’t like what it drank, And art is made. The melting ice makes sure The heart doesn’t go empty Before it's filled again. Because the empty heart Will die, And there will be nothing for the soul to drink. Nothing for the soul to vomit. Nothing to create art.  

 “We need values", they say They pour water into water It fills the glass But it doesn’t make the water A bit more wet. They keep the filled glass In the freezer They take it out It will be broken. They throw the glass away But keep the glass-shaped ice And say it's a better glass But this water of values Will melt away And neither you Nor your values Remain

 One doesn’t notice the sun Until one begins to sweat. And one doesn’t appreciate the wind Without sweating. You were always there. But I never felt like it. You are still there; But you trouble me. Hanging around with them Big boys, Shaking your hips for those men- Those drunk men. Maybe I never gave you Your space. I was always there To hug, To kiss, To comfort, To remove some oddity from your face. But these men, These drunk men Give you the space to dance, To express. I feel your existence profoundly When you're not there. But instead of waiting for the wind, I decided to go out Naked.

 The optimist Thinks he can swim, And jumps into the water. The pessimist Knows he can swim, But wears a floating donut. The pessimist's greatest strength Is also his greatest weakness. He has the strength of knowledge; Knowledge that something bad can happen. Because it's easy For something bad to happen. The optimist says the chance is same For things to be right or wrong. He is right. But it is like keeping a matchbox  On the rim of a boat, And waiting for it to fall. There is equal chance To fall in Or fall out. But falling in, it is saved. And falling out, it is useless.

 The lion Sleeps under the bridge, And people walk over it. Neither the lion, nor the people See each other. Life is all problems: Problems wanting to eat us up Because we stopped on the bridge And tried to tempt it, To see it close. One shouldn’t awaken the lion If he's scared of it. But if you awaken him, You're given a chance To eliminate him. So be proud of it. Seize it. Put your arm into the mouth that wants to tear it away And pull the tail out through the mouth. Turn him inside out. Expose the lion, Expose the problem. Let it feel the shame. Let the heart stick out, So we may smash it. Let the heart stick out, So it may see the light before dying, Although it doesn’t know What light is. The lion Sleeps under the bridge Until someone kills him.

 Art is perfect, They say. Life's a mess, They say. Art can be perfect But only horrible art is so; Life can be perfect But only horrible lives are so. People drink in cups with four handles. It's a perfect cup; You can pick it up from anywhere, But it makes the drinking difficult No one praises the Mona Lisa; They praise the painter. No one praises your perfect life; They say it's because of god. For people to speak about art more, You should ruin it. For people to speak about your life more, You should ruin it. You can improve it and not be perfect But to truly make your legacy last, You should ruin it.