Amaranthine; a blog of original poetry

 I needed you; And it was urgent. But you were a toilet with the lid fallen down. So I pissed at you But missed. Now I sit with olives, Bread, A glass of champagne, Waiting to be urgent again; Waiting to come to you And discover you open To piss at you And laugh the hell out. Now I sit with olives, Bread, A glass of champagne, Looking into someone's eyes; Someone looking at me In a certain way, Someone touching me In a certain way. But no, I should still wait; I should still give you a chance to be open when I’m urgent. So I tell this person To wait Until I return from the bathroom. I am coming in. Hope you're open to get pissed at.

 Witches in old cartoons Brew a pot of potion But use only a spoon of it. Something brews in my heart. I don’t know what it is. And you won’t see much of it. Because my spoon is small, And that’s all I can show. But it is there, Brewing, But missing an ingredient. Brewing, But missing what gives it its magic. It is no potion; Just a clamour of bubbles Waiting for you To silence them. But I am afraid. You might brew in me, And I in you. We'll be there for each other, But not always, Not for each other's funeral. And for one of us Unfortunate to stay, The heart will become a clamour of bubbles Again, Making noise That won’t go away.

 They look at me and think I'm a sunflower Happy to do what the other sunflowers do. They look at me and see A light, An ice sculpture, A pretty leaf. But the leaf is really only pretty After it becomes orange and dies; After it lays down a carpet of dead bodies For us to walk on. They see these beautiful things in me And fail to see the darkness, A bridge in the forest missing planks, The cracked windshield that could fall in anytime. They look at me And they look at my poetry And say they never match. Before you say that, Look again, Look deeper, Feel deeper. And if you can still say that again, Then I should die.

 I've become a mannequin; Adjusted here and there, Dressed here and there, And made to look through the glass Into society. I've become a mannequin; An observer- Seeing everything yet not able to Interact with, Fall in love with, Or save Anyone. I've become a mannequin. No. I let myself become a mannequin So that I won’t be responsible For breaking anymore hearts; So that I won't be the iron nail Under someone's shoe. I can’t help you. But I can't hurt you either. You can’t love me. But I can’t love you either. I'm here, Being adjusted by the shopkeeper, Dressed in the best clothes, Cared for, Repaired if broken. I won't get any of these If I become myself again. So I’d rather remain a mannequin Or die.

 I told you and you didn’t listen. You wanted to see my soul. You wanted to know where the poems came from. I opened it for you And you found yourself alone in the cold; Alone with the trees at night, Dubbing words for the wind Badly. You found yourself Alone with the bears, The crying white faces, The panther that lost its eye to it’s own claw. And you felt dark hands Dragging you further into chaos; Further into me. But you resisted And saw light again. You resisted And walked away Saying nothing. Because you saw nothing pleasant To share.

 The day I saw you, You were marvellous. Yellow butterflies came from you And sprinkled golden dust all around. You were bright. But you wanted me. The sun has fallen on this black rose And turned the dew into pearls. The sun has found me hiding In this hollow trunk. You wanted me Because I was a lonely teddy bear on a bench Fallen sideways. You wanted me Because I was a sword Decorated to hide what I am. You wanted me And you got me. But you tried to take this sword by the blade And you cut yourself. You cut yourself And blamed me, Took away the sunlight And took me back to the hollow trunk Where you found me.

 A man walking on fire, A woman on horseback going to war, The band playing on a ship Going down In the middle of the Atlantic. They say Burned feet is burned feet, A dead woman is a dead woman, A dead band is a dead band. Really? Do you really not feel The romance, The beauty in the risk, The guts, The fire. Do you really not cry Yet feel brave. Do you really not cry Yet feel strength. Why do you try so hard To sit in a tent Where the fire takes up most of the space? Why do you try so hard To pour molten iron into a drinking glass? Let go. Get out of the tent And run for the cold hills for help. Pour the iron Into iron. Let go. Don’t try so hard to hold it in. Let go.

 I am A child falling from his bicycle  After learning to ride, The first wrinkled leaf on a green plant, A snake getting bitten by other snakes. Strong Yet beaten by strength, Alive Yet beaten by life, Venomous Yet dying of venom. The child will throw his bike in the bin, The leaf will fall, The snake will die. I might be first, But I won't be alone. More leaves fall, More snakes die, More bicycles are dropped into bins. I wait for that day to come. I wait to see those who made me suffer Suffer with me. I wait Patiently.

 You try to hide your beauty And it makes you even more beautiful; Like mist on Asian hills, Like a bright drape on a window, Like autumn leaves on a bench, Going away with the wind And coming back. You try to hide your beauty And it makes you even more beautiful. The moon hides behind the cloud And gives the cloud its colour. The sun hides behind a tree, Leaking its light through the leaves. You try to hide your beauty And it makes you even more beautiful.

 You're a dilemma, In order yet out of order, Like rice growing on Asian hills. You are a bridge over a river; A curved bridge reflecting upside down In the water, Making a ring. The sun rises, Glaciers melt, And a lighthouse stands in a man- less island, Unable to guide a lost ship. Why don't you let me reside in you? Why don’t you let me put lights for you To guide the world? Why does the sun rise, The glaciers melt, And old people laugh to the same movie A hundred times? Why doesn’t this ship have a captain? I wait for you To take my wheel And steer me towards an island With a lighthouse That actually gives off light.

 Life is A Van Gogh painting In which many yellow dots make a corn field, A Shakespearean drama Best enjoyed when you don’t understand it, A Rodin sculpture That makes you think. Life is An old car  Kept running to show wealth, Mist on hills  blinding no one as no one goes there, A bottle of coke That has lost its cap. Life is A prologue to death Written in some cryptic language No one can decipher. Life is dead, Life is broken, Life is impossible to understand.

 Trees on either sides meet each other like a heart, Green pastures with little white flowers Going unnoticed Yet realised when they are not there. Trees on either sides meet And lets a plank of light onto the path. The sun shines through fields of wheat And fire burns the forest. Someone kisses And someone lets someone go. Clouds fall into the pond And fish break it with its bubbles. Clouds fall into the pond And floating leaves tickle it. The world is a noisy place Where so much happens. The world is a noisy place Best enjoyed by a quiet person. The world is simply Beautiful.

 You are An orange butterfly on blue pebbles, A humming bird opening to hug a flower, A kiss given in a dream. You are A patch of land in the middle of a river, With a single tree; Beautiful in its loneliness, Lonely in its wildness. A ripple in the water, The soft touch of a potter's hands. Sitting in an old car On a ledge With the birds and the rising sun. The warmth, The colours, The mood that makes one want to kiss. A stalk having is single petal, Still called a flower. A hand without a finger Is still a hand. There’ll be More butterflies, Hummingbirds, And kisses. There'll be More kisses, More hope...  

 My therapist says I am Lost, Broken; That I must cure myself, That I must bring myself together. But A broken vase glued together Will never be the same. A child lost in a maze cannot escape alone If it keeps on changing. My therapist says I should do something. Maybe That's the problem. He only says these things And give me pills to sleep So that I won’t know my own pain For some time; So that I can separate from myself For some time; So that I get a chance to look around For the last piece that'll complete the vase. But little do they know That a broken vase glued together Will never be the same Ever.

 When you were there There was nothing else. There was just your smile, Your wits, And your heart. There was just this fire; This flame crying, Unable to burn the glass bottle thrown into it; This flame jumping To burn my heart rotating on your stick. This flame has burnt me Far more than anyone can heal. This flame has burnt me From the inside. I've become A lark that can’t sing, A wing-less cupid, A guitar playing with a single string. This flame has burnt me Far more than anyone can heal. This lark won’t sing again. But it waits for someone to lie to it That it shouldn’t worry And that nothing is it's fault.

 A veteran without a leg sits on a chair Smoking, Boasting, As if he is still a soldier, As if he can still do things he did back then. A veteran without a leg sits on a chair, Talking of lazy youth, And the cold, And how someone lost their head. Everyone looks at him with respect. Everyone is proud to have him as their guest. But I look at him and go; “Poor thing.” Giving his body so much That he has lost his soul. Giving out his soul so much That he has lost humanity; Able to speak of sinking ships And rotting corpses, Talking able losing friends Without a single tear, Without a glow in the eye, Without emotions. So I look at him and go; “Poor thing. He has lost himself.”

 Fear walks to me Like the silhouette of a tiger Rising from orange dust. Fear walks to me And I hide Like an old house behind trees, Like a manhole, Like the old man sitting near the mailbox Hugging himself for warmth. Maybe I shouldn’t move And the tiger may go its way. Maybe I shouldn’t hide. A man sitting outside a bar Asking for alms. A woman dancing in the bar Asking for men. Their eyes meet, But the man does not enter the bar. Their eyes meet, Yet they wonder if the other person's eyes Are being honest. Their eyes meet And they have nothing to lose. Yet, He keeps asking for alms And she keeps dancing. Yet, We run away from fear.

 A child holding up a feather Against the orange sky, Swans kiss in the water, And a dead clock is dropped in the same water To bury the frozen time. The feather speaks of the wind, The kiss speaks of love, And the clock speaks nothing, But with the greatest loudness. I shouldn’t trust. The sea comes in to kiss my feet, But it can come in a little more to drag me in. There is a smell of salt, Seals, And barbecue. And there is fire, Food, Friends. A child with a clock, Not knowing the batteries can be changed, Throwing it into the sea. And no one will ever know the frozen time, And no one will trust the kid Even if he says it. And this trust or it's lack Is not important To anyone. And the frozen time Is not important too.

 I won't let you go Even if the skies fall on me. You’re A chandelier in a straw hut, A complement from a girl, A poet who can write without alcohol. I won't let you go Even if the skies fall on me. Because you're a rare gem; A ghost walking in and out to understand me. I'll come for you again And things will be different this time. This time, I want you  To be the mist I'll walk through. I want you To be the bucket that catches this leaking roof, A cradle, A pebble in the shoe. I won't let you go Even if the skies fall on me Because I know that wouldn’t happen If you're with me Always.

 Yesterday was A photograph of the Eiffel Tower at night Taken in the rain; An ignored yellow flower in the weeping morning grass, A hand-hold by a stranger. Yesterday was Sad, A pigeon with a broken wing. Yesterday I tried to swim through a waterfall And was taken away. Yesterday Was a blur, A sight through frosted glass, A glass of wine left to age, A blade of weeping grass That was never noticed, Because all the grass cried Together. Yesterday was  A shattered mirror, A silhouette, A half eaten biscuit left for the ants. Yesterday was war And I live to talk about it.

 Feeling sleepy. Yet not sleeping. Going upstairs, Pretending I want to read Something. Opening a novel, A fat one. But not reading. Not reading. Staring Keeping a phone between the pages At the middle of the book, So they'll think I'd read so much. What a nerd. Reading Dante, Shakespeare, Freud, With a phone inside, At midnight, After everyone has slept. Still I feel someone's watching; Someone Climbing up the steps Someone Watching through the keyhole, Watching through the gap under the door. Someone Calling my name. They are only The sounds of the night, Mildly warm, With crying cicadas, Howling dogs. But I hear my name In the cicada's cry, In the dog's howl. Having no inner peace. Yet I repeat this Every night Mercilessly.

 The sun sets in the desert Putting out all the colours it can. But there is no one to see it. The soul urges the heart to speak But there is no sound. I loved the world so much That people said I loved it because it gave me something. I loved the world so much That it hurt me, That I had to hate it with all I had. And the heart does not speak anything, And the soul has nothing to listen to. Dogs eat out of bins, People walk in and out of trains, The hungry baby falls asleep in the arms of its mother. But I do nothing Because they'll say I do it because I want something. I loved the world so much That it hated me for loving it; It hated me for being in it In the first place.

 They say I am great, They say I am marvellous. But only I know what I am. A drunk bum with frizzy hair, Lying back on a couch With an empty bottle shaking in my hand. I hear the clock, I hear my own heart And hear the two synchronise and break rhythm. They say I am great, They say I am marvellous. But only I know what I am. Abel; Named after the man who died first, Who was killed first, Who first understood how it feels To be separated from consciousness. Abel; The first man who showed the world That man has his end, The first man who showed the world That man will kill man. I started it. And men still die, And men still kill men. They say I am great, But only I know what I am.

 I sat on the park bench, Bored, Waiting for a friend, With my phone battery dead; Alone in a cage with my thought-lions Waiting to tear me apart. I sat on the park bench, Bored And I saw it; A leaf at my feet, Too large to belong to the cherry trees around me. A leaf at my feet With a little puddle of rain in it, Glowing like plastic. A leaf at my feet, With small drops on the edges, Glowing like pearl, Like purity, Like a tear shed on a good day, At a good time, For a good reason. There was an old cry When the wind moved it gently. I looked around to find the tree It came from. But my friend came, And I asked him for a power bank. And I write this poem now When I suddenly remembered the leaf, Sitting on my bed With the phone battery dead.

 I look at the poor woman Unable to get out of bed, Surrounded by tubes, Cylinders And beeping machines with cool graphs. I look at the poor woman Unable to get out of bed And think why she should live. Her life hangs on the machines, The tubes, The people wearing white; A fuel-less car on a bumpy road Trying to reach the gas station on a bottle of coke, An ice sculpture kept up by the cold, A faint light. I look at the poor woman Unable to get out of bed And laugh at my crappy self, Unable to get out of bed For no reason at all. I look at the poor woman And see a light in her eyes That I am afraid to keep looking at.

 There will be Gum on benches And snot on windows. But we still sit on benches And look out through windows Alone, Drinking soup, Falling asleep there with a cat. Dirt is disgusting Only when you know it has stuck to you. So be at peace And relax on the bench in the autumn When the trees are bare And people don’t come out due to the cold. So be at peace And sit by the window To watch the world Without it watching you. Ignore the dirt And be at peace Always.

 A wrist leaks blood on a sink, A rope on a leaf-less tree, Too many pills in the hand. Wining, Stretching naked on a narrow bed, Not able to stretch enough. Sometimes I wish  Someone stretched me Until I broke in half. Sometimes I wish Someone would know my pain. But no. A wrist leaks blood on a sink, A rope on a leafless tree, Too many pills in the hand. Rocks erode and flowers wither And footprints dissolve into the lips of the sea. And not even the sea remembers How big they were, What created them. Wrists leak blood on sinks, Ropes sway on trees, And the pills get swallowed.

 Mayflies Leaving themselves on the balcony, On the hanging clothes, In the flower pot. Wet in the rain. Being cleaned, Thrown somewhere Together. But those in the flower pot. The very few in the flower pot Lay forgotten For good. They'll decay, Becoming Manure, Soil, Root, Stem, Flower. Yes, the flower, Loved and watered everyday. The flower That need not wait for the rain. And those loving the flower Won't know they are loving the mayfly As well. And they'll not abandon the flower Even if they realise it; Which they will not.

 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.

 I fell asleep on the couch of life And they took me to bed. Now there is a path on the grass Where I used to walk. Now there is a bench on the grass Where I used to sit. None of these are needed. I fell asleep on the couch of life And they took me to bed. There are pillows, Too much space, Air conditioning. None of these are needed. There is an extra pillow, But no one to share it with. There is more width But no one to sleep with. I fell asleep on the couch of life, And they told me it isn’t enough. I feel asleep on the couch of life And they took me to bed. But I don’t sleep as well Anymore.

 The murderer Laughs at the television. He laughs at how dumb The police are, How wrongly they said things happened. The murderer laughs. The murderer laughs. They kill the killer And say the number of killers Has decreased. We know that can’t happen. We get a chance to laugh. We get a chance to laugh. But we don’t. A killer cannot kill another killer. But the police can. Kill with a mask, And you get killed. Kill with a uniform, And you get promoted. So how we look Influences how we're seen. And how we're seen Influences our future. But why? We get a chance to ask. We get a chance to ask. But we don’t. If you want to do something bad, Wear a uniform And do it. And no one Will ask

 The creeper that climbs highest Has done so Only because it has lived a long life. It grows fruits that feed people, And flowers that feed birds. And it is given all the love Because it can give out so much. Old people are respected Because they are old, Not because they deserve it. They might have given Fruits to people, Flowers to birds, Their smell to houses. But it is not because of their hard work, Just like the creeper  That never had to work hard To bear fruits. It comes When it comes, And people feed off it. It is not given; It is taken. The old Do not give out love, It is taken; Stolen To empty their heart Which already lacks so much. They lack Because they've given out In their youth. They've given out  When they could give. So they don’t give anymore. People just take from them And respect them For allowing them To take.

 They tie badminton nets tight enough, Claim the wind doesn’t blow, And blame themselves. They sail the seas in the same ship Until its bottom rots out And blame the wood. They see that fire leads the way And wait for light alone to exist. But the fire will burn out And the light will go out with it. But they wait uselessly  Like roots in the desert, Like a bright bulb in an empty room, Like the boy in a relationship expecting complement. And while they wait They tie their nets tighter, They keep sailing in the same ship Uselessly.

 My hand touched yours And a spark bit me. My hand touched yours And I held it tight and pulled you close. My mind has its morality, But the body has a mind of it’s own. And that mind usually does what makes me feel good. I hold you close And you try to resist Like a poor man afraid to sleep on a soft bed Fearing he will sleep too long, Like the lips too afraid to kiss, Fearing it does not know how. My hand touched yours And a spark bit me. Now there is a scar Too deep to heal on it’s own. Now there is a scar That can only be covered by what bit it. But you won’t come And I sit here looking at the scar Weeping, Reminding me of my incompleteness Without you.

 A man lies in a chair shot in the chest, Neck fallen back, Open mouth, Grey eyes. A man lies in a chair shot in the chest; His eyes still alive, Looking at a white wall with Torn stickers, A baseball glove, The cracked photograph of a child with a fishing rod. A man lies in a chair shot in the chest, Really seeing these things  For the first time. Yet not able to cry; Not able to show he cares. Sure. He had all the time to do it. But Will one more chance hurt?

 We bring new creatures into the world And make them see things they shouldn’t. A bug squished on a wall Painted first the first time, A microwave  heating until it catches fire, A man and a woman Breaking empty bottles on each other's heads While the creature in the blue cloth Cries, Cries, And cries. That is the moment it realises  There is no one for it. That is the moment it realises Crying is a solitary act. That is the moment it realises The world is not so innocent And that it should be like the world To be in it Alive.

 Why am I still awake? Something  boiling in me. Something Wanting to come out. But I keep it in me, Tying it with chains and strapping it To my heart, So that it will feel my heart beat. It will know that I have a heart. And maybe; Just maybe, It will quiet down. But mostly it won’t. So I’ll have to stay awake at midnight To let it out Without punching myself in the face, Without cutting a vein, Without being dumb, In the only way I know how. That only way Is poetry; Burning in me Like fire trying to melt a broken bottle, So it won’t become a pain to some careless lad. It only hurts me. It should only hurt me, Because I chose to get hurt. I chose to hold the fire long enough For the firewood to come. And when it comes, I get the paper And write.

 We realise there is fire Only when the fire That has burned everything else Has latched on to our clothing. We tear away our burning clothes And don't care Until it begins to burn our skin. We would want to run. But running anywhere Would mean Running into fire. And staying in one place Would mean Staying in fire. Then there is no way But to become fire And join everything else That became fire.

 The child  Had too many paper cuts. So his teacher Did not teach him the full art. He could make A paper plane. And only A paper plane. The teacher quit. But the child kept on making Paper planes, With larger and larger paper. And when the wind blew, He would sit on it And fly above his teacher's house, Proudly. The child Had too many paper cuts. So his teacher Did not teach him the full art. So the child expanded what he had known.

 Old men Wearing T-shirts The other way, And searching for its tag Behind their necks. Of course, They don't find it. Old men Carrying radios Without batteries. Not knowing How to put the batteries. Still carrying it around. Getting laughed at. Of course, They don't hear it. Old men Watering plants With cracked sprinklers. All alone. Not buying another one. Not knowing Where to buy another one. Of course, They don't care. Because  No one Cared for them. No one Put batteries In those radios No one Watered These plants. Why does a crumbling plant Need water? They ask. Because it is only crumbling. Not crumbled. Why put batteries  In old radios? They ask. Because they still work. No batteries. No water. Only old men Broken without these.

 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.

 Everyday  you sit by the window in a wheelchair, Playing your violin. And everyday I sit on the bench outside To listen to the sadness in your playing. I sit on the bench outside To hurt myself. Your hair Untied, Wild, Falling on your face. Why won’t you look at me Sitting here to listen to you Everyday? Why won’t you look at me; Someone who listens to music To feel hurt; Someone who's like you. There is joy in the suffering, And no one sees it. There is joy in the suffering, And it makes you seek suffering When you're happy. I am happy today. So I came here to hurt myself, And to be in company with someone Who understands the joy in suffering. I come here to see you play the violin In pain, As if your fingers bleed. I come here to hurt myself Everyday.

 I am A child falling from his bicycle  After learning to ride, The first wrinkled leaf on a green plant, A snake getting bitten by other snakes. Strong Yet beaten by strength, Alive Yet beaten by life, Venomous Yet dying of venom. The child will throw his bike in the bin, The leaf will fall, The snake will die. I might be first, But I won't be alone. More leaves fall, More snakes die, More bicycles are dropped into bins. I wait for that day to come. I wait to see those who made me suffer Suffer with me. I wait Patiently.

 You don’t call anymore, And I have nothing to say. A fly sits on the apple with brown spots. I wave it off and eat it. A blot of pigeon poop on the chair. I scratch it off and sit on it, Waiting for you to walk down the road; Waiting for you to wave. But you don’t come. You don’t call anymore, And I have nothing to say. Tops spin to a stop, And helium balloons never return, A cat with a broken leg fails to jump the fence; And it waits there crying To be with the others cats. You don’t call anymore, And I have nothing to say. But when I sit on the chair, I hope you'll come. When I eat the stale apple, I hope you feel my pain. And when I can’t jump the fence, I assume you’re on the other side Waiting For me to heal.

 You were the clock in the bathroom, Breathed over by vapour; Unreadable, Uncared, Useless. But now, You're the water in the toilet hitting my butt When I take a shit; Dirty, Yet tickling me every time. You used to shy away on seeing me. But look at you now; Speaking continuously: A pistol from Hollywood, Never running out of bullets. I know, You know, Everyone knows. And yet why don’t you say it? Why don't you tell me That you would like to spend more time With me? Why don’t you tell me That you like to put your head on my shoulder, And have me run fingers through your hair? Why don’t you put down that infinite pistol of yours And lose yourself in my eyes, And let me do the same? Shoot those bullets into my heart. Let it bleed; Let it bleed for you And for me.

 Child, Drawing on walls. Getting beaten For drawing on walls, Making them dirty. Child, Drawing on paper. Getting laughed at For drawing a bad picture, Making the paper dirty. Child, Mixing paints For the first time. Laughed at Because he used The wrong shade of blue. Adult, Given canvas. Given paints. Given brushes. Expected to paint A masterpiece, With the entire world watching. It doesn't happen. What happens Is self destruction. Using ones blood Instead of paint.

 Should I get up today? Half an hour left for work Shoes gathering dust Under my bed Clothes thrown last night Into the washing machine Still there Undesired Like me Yet taken out the last minute To be worn To reach a place For someone else To type at a computer For someone else To make money For someone else To return to bed To remain there Undesired Waiting to be taken out The last minute To reach a place...

 They staple our eyelids And prevent sight. They staple our earlobes And try to prevent hearing. But they can only try. The common man's heart beats faster in the dark. Snakes, Ghosts, Evil spirits. They say. But no. When the eyes can’t see, When the eyes are not distracted, The heart can hear itself Beating. And it believes it isn’t beating Enough. And it beats faster So that we move faster To where there is light. A creeper in the dark will creep towards light Or die trying. And dying trying Is the better Than dying staying in the dark.

They say I am slow at everything. They shout, They push dry leaves into my throat, They say I won’t make it in life. But they don’t ask; They don’t ask why I'm slow at everything. It's because I don't want whatever I'm doing To end. It's because I don’t know what I should do next To kill time Until time kills me. There is this constant stress To fill up my days with stuff And try to find meaning in the chaos. There is this constant stress To find that one thing That will make me feel complete. They say, I should go out, Buy a new pair of shoes, Get a girl. But I stay shut in my room. I have Gone to parties, Worn dazzling outfits, Flirted with girls. But I still feel Broken, Incomplete, A dead plant with a single green  leaf, Waiting to go brown like the others.  

 What has happened to us? You stand close, And yet I shout as if you can’t hear me. Maybe you can't And so can't I. What has happened to us? Two people living together, Feeling nothing. Why is it that there are too many thorns, And flowers choose to grow beneath it all, Only to die Slowly? Why is it that kids always step on puddles, And adults only step on puddles When they're alone? Why is there so much Blood, Broken windshields, Torn posters No longer recognizable? Why do we try so hard? Why do we shout so hard To say something to the person close by? Why do we live together, Yet not feel each other's presence? Why do we tolerate people who are different? Why can’t we celebrate them? Everyone tells us to live. But to do so, These questions must be answered. Everyone tells us to live; But existing is hard enough.

 Somewhere, Tiles get wet despite curtains on bathtubs. Somewhere, Ants bump into each other, A flower fades without a window For the light to fall in. The curtains don't matter, The ants keep bumping, The flower dies. Everything exists and nothing happens; Like men in Hollywood Pointing guns without opening fire, Like foam on coffee, Popping to reveal the shallowness, The waste of money. Everything exists and nothing happens. The tiles get wet And the ants bump And flowers fade and die. Everything exists and nobody knows why. And nobody knows why nobody knows why.

 You are like those ads on TV; Showed as if true, Yet written on some corner that everything is fake. You are A creative visualization, A stunt performed by experts. I see you Because I have to see you. I see you While I wait for the programme to start, While I wait for her to come. I've never loved you, But I had to see you everyday to get to her. You are like those ads on TV, And I was too late to see the small writing in the corner. You are like those ads on TV; Always perfect, Always cleaning your room, Always dressing up like you're going out. But perfection is inhuman. You do it To show someone what you really aren’t. You are like those ads on TV. So I don’t love you.

 We all had our torches We all had our paths to choose Some of us won Most of us did lose Most took the well lit path And threw away the torch Some took the dark path And did the same Some took the dark path And let the torch guide them But I was dumb. Too dumb So I took the lit path And held on to my torch The path turned dark But I still had my torch I reached the destination But maybe I shouldn't have No one else reached I was alone.

 Kids not allowed to draw on walls, Women not allowed to express, Men not allowed to love. Because The walls become dirty, Expressions becomes awkward, And love may end in hate. We build walls around ourselves And cry when no one can see us. We build walls around ourselves And forget to put windows for the light to fall in. We build walls For art, For expression, For love, And complain these things are crap; That they go nowhere, lead nowhere. The child will not paint Picasso, The woman does not know how to express, The man does not know how to love Fully. But let the child draw meaningless lines, And let the women express, Let men love; And they'll learn to Draw well, Express accurately, Love fully. All they need is our patience. Second chances are never enough. They should be given chances Until they Can draw well, Express accurately, Love fully. They should be given chances Until they break the walls They built around themselves.

 Everyday  you sit by the window in a wheelchair, Playing your violin. And everyday I sit on the bench outside To listen to the sadness in your playing. I sit on the bench outside To hurt myself. Your hair Untied, Wild, Falling on your face. Why won’t you look at me Sitting here to listen to you Everyday? Why won’t you look at me; Someone who listens to music To feel hurt; Someone who's like you. There is joy in the suffering, And no one sees it. There is joy in the suffering, And it makes you seek suffering When you're happy. I am happy today. So I came here to hurt myself, And to be in company with someone Who understands the joy in suffering. I come here to see you play the violin In pain, As if your fingers bleed. I come here to hurt myself Everyday.

 We were little. We played hide and seek, And ran around. We used to Pinch each other, Push each other, Wipe each other's tears. But now, You've grown. But now, I can’t even stand near you. Your body has rounded And your mind has become too mature. A girl becomes a woman When men with morals see her As a Chinese vase in a cardboard box With the symbol of a broken glass on it. A girl becomes a woman When she attracts and repels men At the same time, Not knowing what to do; A beautiful, silent awkwardness. We were little; And I still am that ten year old boy. We were little, But you've grown. So I keep my distance From you.

 I shot a bullet that became a boomerang. It still chases me. But it has helped me To run faster, To run for my life. I tried to find the perfect path For a long time. But now that I am being chased, I run through the right path Without knowing it. The path without thorns, Bushes, Fences; The path without benches, Rubbish bins, Stupid people preaching stupidity. I shot a bullet that became a boomerang. And it became the best thing That ever happened to me.

 “Art is subjective.” They say. And I am tired of hearing it. They say There is no good art, Bad art, Bullshit art, Not art. There is just art. But no. Good art has the heat of flame, And the sound of broken glass cackling in it, That will never melt. Good art has smoke that blinds, Yet smells of whatever was burning. A torch without flame Is a stick with a black cloth, A headless match Is no match at all. “Art is subjective.” They say. And I am tired of hearing it. There is Good art, Bad art, Bullshit art, Not art. It is which of these you like That is subjective.

I am a tree with bright flowers And dripping fruits; But there is a snake in my branches Somewhere. No one is brave enough to kill it, And I can’t do it myself. Boys won't come to me For my fruits, Girls won't pick flowers from me For their lovers. The newly wed Won't sit under me for a photograph, And the old man Won't sit under me to read a book. And one day I'll die. And the snake Will go searching for another tree. And one day I'll die, And they'll say How I brightened up the hills, How the grass around me now dies without shade. And they'll say How I caught the run-away kite for the boy, And how I gave my branches for the nests; At least until the snake ate the eggs. They’ll say How badly they wanted me. They'll finally realise I could not have killed the snake in my own branches. I want to die So that they'll love me For the first time.

 The artist Does not care about paint on his hands Until he has finished the picture. The fisherman Does not care about his aching arms Until he has caught his fish. I won't complain about you Until I seize you, Until you're close enough, That your breath arouses the hair behind my neck. But don’t come to me. Don’t let me. Ignore me. Ignore me. I cannot love you. Not until you let me see The canvas of your heart. Not until you let me Catch fish from the pond of your soul. But don’t come to me. Don’t let me, So that I won’t complain About you. Don’t let me, So that you remain the perfect painting, The perfect catch To me.

 When the sun rises, Everything is a silhouette Cut from its light. But once it is high enough, Nothing is part of it anymore. Everyone Wants to go higher than everyone else. They think We will respect them more. They think We will open our windows to their light; And we will do these things. But we do it out of habit, We do it out of duty. We don’t do it out of love, Loyalty, Sincerity. Because they soared so high That we can’t relate. They soared so high That we can't become silhouettes in their light Anymore. We can’t be one with them; So we do not care about them, And they do not care about us, Except when they want to win.

 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 ...

 A man walking on fire, A woman on horseback going to war, The band playing on a ship Going down In the middle of the Atlantic. They say Burned feet is burned feet, A dead woman is a dead woman, A dead band is a dead band. Really? Do you really not feel The romance, The beauty in the risk, The guts, The fire. Do you really not cry Yet feel brave. Do you really not cry Yet feel strength. Why do you try so hard To sit in a tent Where the fire takes up most of the space? Why do you try so hard To pour molten iron into a drinking glass? Let go. Get out of the tent And run for the cold hills for help. Pour the iron Into iron. Let go. Don’t try so hard to hold it in. Let go.

 They shut me in a room With no lights. But thank fate, There was a window. They shut me in a room; And I sat on the bed, Trying to make out the feet outside, Through the gap beneath the door. But they left And I stopped looking. I prayed, I banged on the door, I wept into the pillows. But no one came. I broke chairs, Tore apart books, Hit my head on the wall. It bled; And I hit my head some more. But no one came. There was so much pain They gave me; There was so much pain I gave myself. But I wanted to live, Even if nothing would change. But I wanted to live, So I threw my heart onto pieces of paper And threw the paper into the bin. It filled the bin, It filled the floor, It filled the room and suffocate me to death. Nothing would change But I wanted to live; So I became a poet.

 Water leaking from pipes on a building, The child sticking gum to a wall. Dogs lick the water, People slant on the gum. They leave the gum there itself. Lights hanging on rusted chains Swaying Gently. The bulb blinks  And the chain cries. But they leave the bulb there. But they leave the chain there. It will fall one day. One day, there will be darkness. One day, the pipes will break And the gum will go where it belongs. But until that day, we must wait. The day isn’t tomorrow. But we must wait; Just wait  and do nothing. Just wait Until someone does something. Just wait To wait. Do nothing.

Should I get up today? Half an hour left for work Shoes gathering dust Under my bed Clothes thrown last night Into the washing machine Still there Undesired Like me Yet taken out the last minute To be worn To reach a place For someone else To type at a computer For someone else To make money For someone else To return to bed To remain there Undesired Waiting to be taken out The last minute To reach a place...

 Worm Finding it’s way through a doormat, A maze. Cursing it all its life. Because it was the only life He had known. He thought the mat was limiting his freedom. But it was protecting him From dogs, From weather, From human feet. Trying to get out. Getting out. But it couldn’t crawl on the marble floor. It had stayed in the mat. No. It had become the mat. It could never become Itself. Because ‘itself' Was not given a chance to exist. The worm Wanted freedom. Someone stepped on it And it became free Forever.

 You've left. And I try to write poems without you in them. But I can only try. You creep in Somewhere; Like light through a torn drape, Like an error in a published book, Like water going down in a slow tornado Into a clogged drain. I can only try. You creep in Somewhere. And I change the words, I stitch the drapes and repair the drains and the leaking pipes. But I can still see you in my words. You creep in from somewhere Like a worm In an apple already eaten. You creep in from somewhere And I realize it too late. You've left And I try to write poems without you in them. But I can only try. You creep into my heart and play tricks with the lines. You've left And I try to write poems without you in them. But I can only try Again.

 Women want more beauty And men want more manliness. We want so much That we get nothing. Our cups are so full That we can’t move them, Our books are so heavy, We don’t feel like opening them. We've made everything too difficult And only acknowledge it alone, In some corner Of some room, Crying softly. We've made everything too difficult By making everything available For everyone. Lightbulbs blink and die, Mountains block winds, And the sportsman misses the penalty Again. And we change nothing. We are doomed By the more beauty we want, The more manliness we want. We are doomed By wanting to live longer, As if it is some great thing  To sit alone in a room Helplessly Watching old movies from square TVs. We have all we need. But we look for light in hair-clogged drains. We don’t find any. We want so much That we get nothing.

 You gave me a kiss and the skies fell apart. But you went your way, And I went mine. You gave me a kiss and the skies fell apart. But I don’t have it anymore. You scared me, And I dropped it into the ocean of my heart. And it went down In bubbles, bubbles, bubbles. You gave me a kiss and the skies fell apart, And there was more light; I saw you better And the real you scared me. So I dropped it into the ocean of my heart. And it went down In bubbles, bubbles, bubbles.

 Somewhere, A leaf falls. Somewhere, A puppy is run over by a car, A boy in a wheelchair looks out his window Watching other children play. A couple sits on a bench With a bottle of wine That will ruin their lives. Leaves fall, Puppies die, Children die inside. Lost; Not given a second chance. We see it all and complain. What else can we do? We can’t give A leaf, A leg, A life. But we can give Warm hugs, A fireplace, Tea in a broken cup glued together. We can give A pat on the shoulder, A good book, A kiss. We can give More life To life.

 Dogs eat up leftovers on the street Without realizing they are cleaning the street, Leaves die in the winter So the tree may live to see another spring, We live So that we can bring people to our funeral. Everything happens for a reason; Or does it? The pigeon doesn’t aim poop at your head Unless it thinks you're a rock. Light doesn’t come in to light the room. The room has a window there. There is no reason. All one can do is hope that it happens; Hope that the last domino in the line Makes the spoon fall, That the child will not discover porn when he’s seven, That the die rolls a six. One who understands this Will put a window where the light falls; And there will be more light, More sound, Music of birds. There will be more life In life.

 Plastic flowers on the office table, ‘Canon’ played at weddings, A young man living alone, Going to work Again. Waking up To dress up, To breathe smoke on the way to work, To breathe smoke at work, Come back, Lie in bed thinking about Washing the dishes, A book he planned to start writing, A girl he wants to ask out. But having no energy, No fire to produce smoke, No firewood to create the fire In the first place. Firewood drenched in water, Candle without a wick, An armless clock. No wall will bear him, No girl will say yes. He is always tired Because he wakes up everyday To dress up, Breathe smoke on the way to work, Breathe smoke at work Until he dies.

 I placed a lollipop On the bed And watched My spectacles On the table. The sun threw its colours, Its hidden rainbow Through the lens Over the table. Subtle, With wild shadows Of fluttering leaves, Flashing. I snapped out of it. I was itching all over. The lollipop had become A crowd of ants. So I threw it Into the bin And returned To watch the rainbow lights. Isn't life as simple as this?

 The child kicks the ball. The ball may return. Or the child will run behind it. It may hit A wall, A thorny bush, A window of an old man Waiting to see someone, Waiting to hear from someone. It may go over a wall; A wall Without a gate. A wall The child can't climb. But the child will climb, Even if his toes ache and knees bleed. The child will climb, And he will climb back, Even if his toes ache and knees bleed Again. And the child will kick the ball Again. Because that's what it was made for.

 She saw me; A rusted nail, And kept me upright on the floor So that people will notice. They curse me; Still failing to discard me. They have their pain to deal with. She saw me; A rusted nail, And thought I was always the same. Little does she know That I used to hold The picture of some nude girl by some famous artist, An old man's stool, The image of God himself. But now I am to be discarded. One shouldn’t put together a broken mug Without all the pieces. The Mona Lisa with a moustache No longer has value. Now I am to be discarded, And I wait for someone sensible To do it. Or I'll remain a rusted nail, Upright on the floor Wounding more people. Now I am to be discarded, And I wait for someone sensible To do it To me.

 I remember that day When we sat across the table in the old bar. It was raining outside, And we pretended to look at it, Trying to glance at each other without making it known. I poured a drink for you And you poured one for me. But the bottle remained between us; And it still Remains between us. I drink And you break the bottles, You drink And I hide the bottles For me to drink. I remember that day When we sat across the table in the old bar, Because that day never happened Again. I remember that day When we sat across the table in the old bar. And even drinking is not giving me joy anymore. I drink And you break the bottles. But you're not there today, So I break them myself On the wall, On the piano I gifted you, On my head. And the blood flows, And the room blurs, And I see a face I don’t want to see. And the blood flows, And the room blurs, And I feel your arm around my neck, Your hair, Your breath, Your beating heart. I hated you But you came, I hated myself But you came. It...