Amaranthine; a blog of original poetry

 Misty hills, Conifers, The smell of wet moss, Rocks hiding and surfacing like floating crocodiles . I sit here with paper and pencil, Thinking of drawing this scene. The thought feels like a hug, And the drawing feels like a hug that'll crush my ribs. Mist hills, Conifers, The smell of wet moss, Rocks hiding and surfacing like floating crocodiles. But all I can draw are houses with no windows, And people made of sticks. All I can draw are hills like pyramids, And trees with green clouds on their branches. I give up And sit thinking about drawing. At least, The hug is soft now. Become a Patron!

 The apple that fell on Newton's head never left. It stayed there And began to grow trees, That shook in the wind whenever he walked, And dropped more apples on his head. Then his head hurt so much That he tried to uproot the tree. The roots held on And the leaves and apples feel onto paper As gravity, Due to gravity. The roots held on And grew mangoes this time. He died trying to get rid of that. Thank god he did. We might have to study that gravity smells like mangoes otherwise. Become a Patron!

 He takes off his shoes before he steps in; Smoothly Like walking out of a Rolls Royce. He takes off his shoes before he steps in To dominate, Decimate, Make us feel we should never play badminton again. We run around for the shuttle Like we're carrying basins to catch the water from a leaking roof, Not knowing from where it will leak. He takes off his shoes before he steps in; Smoothly Like walking out of a Rolls Royce. And he'll leave soon as well, Getting back into his shoes, Going to hide away in his own lair. And Elvis has left the building!

 Is the beach devoid of footprints Or are there so many that they bury each other. Either way, it's the same. There is no path for anyone to follow. And no one can make a new path that lasts, Because one buries the other. Then some people try to surf; At least, Those lines in the water will last longer. Is the beach devoid of footprints Or are there so many that they bury each other. Either way, No one goes anywhere while being noticed.

 I watch the surfer on the beach; How he adjusts to the waves so well, How he conquers them big ones And makes them small ones into calm water. How he knows where the tongue of the sea will touch, And how he escapes it every time. I wish I could do the same. I wish I could do the same Here on land. But the sands engulf me And my feet are the only surf boards I have. The sands engulf me And I run to the sea to wash it off my mouth. But then, The waves catch me And I die Because again, The only surf boards I have Are my own feet.

 I grow flowers in old boots; A pair that was stolen many times. I grow flowers in old boots And put them in the sun And water them often. No one wants to steal them now. All they see are the flowers, And all they smell is the pollen. The shoes are right there And no one wants to steal them now. Maybe Being damp all the time isn’t such a bad thing. Maybe Having no soul isn’t such a bad thing. Maybe Being ignored isn’t such a bad thing. The daisies die And I put roses in them. But still No one steals the boots.

 Life is chains And not tickling feathers. But it cannot deflate me. The basket can be made of thread. The basket can be made of chains. But the ball will always fall through. And it will come down To go in Again And again And again. Life is chains But it doesn’t tie me down even a bit. The chains don’t matter As long as the basket has a hollow The ball can fill for a little time. And the ball goes in Again And again And again.

 Things are as lonely as the gate of a Buddhist shrine in the water, Things are as lonely as the cloud pierced by a mountain peak, The moon with no clouds to tuck it in, Frost on windows, An unlit candle. Things can get lonely. But the shrine is always at peace, The cloud can hug the mountain and stay longer if it wants. The frost will roll down, The unlit candle lives longer, The moon can disappear too. Things can get lonely. Things are as lonely as the gate of a Buddhist shrine in the water, Things are as lonely as the cloud pierced by a mountain peak, The moon with no clouds to tuck it in, Frost on windows, An unlit candle.

 The light is everywhere And no one wants it When it's everywhere. But when I'm in my bed and it wakes me up, When it comes through a gap in my umbrella, When the door opens and there is no wind, I love it. The light is everywhere And no one wants it When it's everywhere. But when it comes from the blinking chicken on a restaurant’s board, When it comes from the bar, A wet pearl, The red moon, I love it. I love it when it's there yet not there, Expected yet surprising. I love it like I love a song I hate When it randomly plays on the radio.

 I lie on the sand, Unable to open my eyes to the sun eating my skin. I lie on the sand, And feel tickled by the breeze Caressing the sweaty hair on my underarms. I lie on the sand, And get scratched and crushed By the many baby turtles rushing for the sea. The gulls come in to grab them, And the mother sea cries aloud For her dwindling children. I become a soldier once more, Trying to crawl out of this war zone Into the safety of some rock Or broken tank. I lie on the sand, Unable to open my eyes to the sun eating my skin. But I opened them. I shouldn’t have.

We walk around with our heads in boxes And claim we're blind; That we can't see the white cascade And the blue jellyfish, That we can't admire those white flowers And roman statues dressed in muscles, That we can't stick our tongues out to taste the air of the sea.  We walk around with our heads in boxes And expect people to know how we look, How we cry, How we giggle. And all we do is to feel miserable. Maybe The light would be too much for us to handle. It may hurt, It may burn us, Blind us for some time. But maybe it's worth it. Why not give it a try?

Angels guard cemeteries with spears And graves go empty everyday. Boards guard parks with red letters And the junk collects everyday; Paper, Spit And beer bottles All empty. Who knows what's in the paper? Maybe It's a debt notice. Maybe It's a love letter with the most romantic poem. But it doesn't matter now. Everything not in its rightful place Is junk. Angels guard cemeteries with spears And graves go empty everyday. Boards guard parks with red letters And the junk collects everyday.

 We'll know the time Even if the numbers on the clock disappeared. We'll know it's rise Even if the cock doesn’t say it. Then let's get rid of the numbers And cut the throat of every cock. Well, this is what they say about god. This is what they say about the spirituality. What isn’t needed Should be uprooted away. But aren’t there still people who use the cock to wake up? Aren’t there still people who can’t read the time? We'll know the time Even if the numbers on the clock disappeared. We'll know it's rise Even if the cock doesn’t say it. But we need not kick these things out. We need not burn these things on pyres Or crucify these things on trees. We can just Live with them. For they hurt no one, Whatever we say.

 Today, The only bulb in the house went out And I sit pondering ways to make light Without buying a new bulb. I lighted candles and put old newspapers into the fireplace. I pulled back drapes and watched red leaves spiral down. Today, The only bulb in the house went out And I'm too pale thinking of looking people in the eyes at the store. But I must go. There isn’t other way. I opened the door, But never went out. Now There was so much light. Now My room became an acrylic swarm of colours, Like a Van Gogh painting of corn fields. Now I realise this is enough. I can stay in Until I’m hungry Desperately.

 I see guitars catch fire And stages crumble. I see the rockstars dance And the audience clap away from the drumbeat. Now it sounds like a trash can of sounds, And I shouldn’t listen to it anymore. Because we are what we listen to as well. So I must go home Before the burning guitar burns their flesh And into the bones, blood and soul. I can’t stand it. I must go home Without telling the crowd these things would happen. They won’t listen And there is not time enough. I see guitars catch fire And stages crumble. I see the rockstars dance And the audience clap away from the drumbeat.

 She's cat like; Lounging around the house unconcerned, Yet pouncing into action when needed. She’s cat like; Barely awake, Scratching at some furniture when awake. But she's a wild cat at times, Chasing the deer ruthlessly through the tall grass That desperately tries to hide the prey. She's cat like; Lounging around the house unconcerned, Yet pouncing into action when needed. She scratches at the veins around my heart And watches as the blood shoots. She chases my soul in my own body And tries to make it hers. I should be careful because She's cat like; Lounging around the house unconcerned, Yet pouncing into action when needed.

 Everywhere I look, I see devils wearing wings And angels hiding to weep. Everywhere I look I see devils wearing wings. But you know they are devils. Because the wings only flap, And don’t take off. You know they are devils When they smile And giggle too much. You know they are devils When they go to churches And cry for christ, But not for their family. You know they are devils When they do good Only when they know They'll be noticed. You know the are devils When they show off their wings Even when they're walking; Phoney wings that don’t take off.

One day coldplay came on radio And lifted my roof. I could see the sky And faces I wanted to forget And flowers I could not smell in the clouds; Flashing lights, Gunshots, Dances with some woman I’very never met. Oh Coldplay! Oh Tchaikovsky! How do you know The pain of one man out of the hundreds of thousands. How do you know what I’d forgotten. How can you care more than all I’very met. You have more life than most people Because you have a soul. And a soul in man is rarer than the scriptures say. And a soul in man is dead if it still exists anywhere. Oh Coldplay! Oh Tchaikovsky! How do you know The pain of one man out of the hundreds of thousands. One day coldplay came on radio And lifted my roof. But then it fell on my chest And crushed me to a pillow of tears.

 The bicycle left near the door On the flower pots; The tallest rose broken and hanging down. Been there for days And a cat sleeps all curled up. Been there for days And no one wants to steal it. The bicycle left near the door On the flower pots; The tallest rose broken and hanging down. The wind blows And the wrapper on the handles shiver. The sun glows And takes out the paint Bit by bit. The bicycle left near the door On the flower pots; The tallest rose broken and hanging down. And one day the rose will fall off Onto those rusty spokes To mark it's timely death.

 Spots on the nose of a cat, Pollen in red flower, Fields lit with flaming lamps, The misty ocean. These are all beautiful things We seldom notice. These are all beautiful things. We create roads to divide, But the trees hug each other After growing up. A plum cake, Tea, Cookies; These are all prettier than most stuff Built with blood, sweat And much death. These are all prettier Than the pyramids, The palaces, The Taj Mahal Thousands died to complete. Why do we take so much pain To build these up? Can’t we just sip the tea And call it a day?

 The factories create clouds As if there isn’t enough already, And I write down sadness As if we've not had enough of it. We all live A genre-less song; A Bohemian rapsody Written by a man who did not show his weakness. That weakness Was anyway known. We live too much And die so much more. We love so much And hate so much more. But we want the world To not hate us. How is that possible? We are beaten up by ourselves, And we cry by ourselves Alone, As if we don’t know anything; As if we were caught by surprise. But think back, And we'll see how it started. We’ll realise We were the ones who knocked down The first domino.

 The cabin amid yellow trees Near a pond With a waterfall as high as my knees; I knew how this place would be. The flowers are still white and pink, The moss on the wood hasn’t grown or shrunk A visible bit, The ladder on the side is still missing a plank. I knew how this place would be. It has been like this Ever since my brain learned to shove the world into mere images So brutally. It has been like this Ever since my ears learned to shove the coolness of the water into mere sounds So brutally. It has been like this forever And yet I long to see it as it is; And yet I long to not see it change. There is beauty in predictability Sometimes.

 Maybe she's not so pretty. But she's electric. A wooden electric guitar Costs more than the other ones Although wood is not rare Or special Or Stronger. The wood is delicate And it takes delicate hands to put together. She is delicate too. And it tells me the people who made her her Are also delicate. Maybe she's not so pretty. But she's electric; Having impact like lightning, Even if it doesn’t strike a tree. Having impact Just by being present. She isn’t pretty, But she has a madness that's very enjoyable.

Arrows make the walls beautiful And the roads symmetric and ugly. Arrows mark streets and hit hearts. Arrows empower samurai and hit targets. Arrows give maps direction And takes the same away from life. Arrows guide And arrows bend And arrows strike. Arrows stay And arrows move And arrows guide And arrows misguide. So maybe we should ditch the arrows And draw lines where we walk, So that they may travel in both ways, And not just the direction we took.

 Her smile's a red moon, A clam in the desert, An eggshell on the forest floor; Rare But making one stop in the path To have a second look Or third. But one doesn’t know if the chicks escaped Or were eaten by snakes, wolves, or the mother itself. One doesn’t know if the clam is dead, One doesn’t see the red moon If it's behind a cloud. Her smile's a red moon, A clam in the desert, An eggshell on the forest floor; Rare and sweet like honey, Yet becoming sweeter because the tree with the honeycomb Is a challenge to climb.

 Rocks punch themselves out from the water But the river still flows. The sunlight tickles it And it breaks the lines of light with it's flow. The sunlight tickles it And it still moves. Rocks punch themselves out from the water And the fish swim around it. The rocks lament And spit out bubbles around them As the water moves. The river doesn’t mind. The rocks stay And leaves fall And night comes and goes. But the river still flows. It bends but never breaks And it knows it will reach somewhere Even though it doesn’t know where that is.

 I climb grey stairs As the windows spit out yellow light. The neon goes off and on, Off and on. I climb grey stairs On the way home As drunk men lean on one another and fall, As mad women run the streets. I climb grey stairs And get tired. The neon goes off and on, Off and on. Look at the freedom these men and women have. And look at me; Having built an image too perfect to ever be free. And I climb grey stairs to my home And I wish to be like them. Well, I've been wishing for a long time. And the wishing alone often satisfies.

 I grew up in a tiny dark room With a square window I could not reach I thought; “one day I'll grow up. I'll break the window and outside reach. “I'll see trees, people and park benches I'll see the sun, not just its beams I'll search for god. I'll go to churches I've  only read books and seen things in dreams I grew into a man I could reach the window The bars were weak with rust And flowery creepers grew slow I wanted to break free But those creepers were beautiful So I sat there to write a poem And made my heart full The creepers grew Sprouting flowers and leaves And they covered the walls, Cracking bricks, breaking lightbulbs I wrote poem after poem I never wanted to leave The walls cracked They will fall on me one day And I’ll die with my poems.

 I am surrounded by paper walls I refuse to break. And I don’t know why. I am surrounded by paper walls With holes in them Through which they spy on me Every time I write poetry. They think I have some secret; Some potion I drink To write three poems a day. Sometimes, I think of what might be going through their head And laugh Like a madman with a chainsaw. I laugh And they think I've lost my mind. They're not wrong. But they got the timing all wrong. I didn’t lose my mind recently. I lost it The day I started to write poetry.

 The prisoner dances like his feet is on fire And the jailer wonders why he is so happy. Maybe it's because he is free from chains By being in. The jailer is not. He is bound by walls unseen And controlled by voices unheard. He swims in a swamp of his own, Fearing that the air may touch him. But The prisoner dances like his feet is on fire And spits out profanity like a bold cowboy. The jailer enters the jail to be a part of this. The prisoner knocks him out, Takes the keys And escapes After locking him in. Now he can be happy forever.

 I drift in the ocean on a plank of wood From a broken ship. I drift in the ocean and watch the stars And wonder and wonder. I drift and my mind drifts away from me. The stars move the more you look at them. You get lost the more you look at them. You see yourself the more you look at them. Then you'll see shooting stars And wonder why they don’t collide with the ones standing still. Then you'll see shooting stars And wonder at their discipline And feel angry towards yours. The sky is pretty. I guess I shouldn’t be rescued from the ocean after all.

 A yellow bird sits on the standing plank of a fallen fence And watches the lake shine. It sings this song for someone. But for who? The men in the speedboat drown in the engine’s erring. And the wind has it's own music to play. A yellow bird sits on the standing plank of a fallen fence And sings. But for who? The water enjoys it And dances, Breaking the lines of light that have been there for long Like wrinkles on an old forehead. A yellow bird sits on the standing plank of a fallen fence And sings. But for who? Maybe it's for the water And maybe for me. “It's ready.” He said. The bird was on a stick Rotating above the fire. Now the flames sing too

 I am a rose in a garden of daisies. I tried to hide it for a long time. I let them grow taller So they could hide me. I let them get the sun And I shrunk, Shrunk And shrunk. But one day the old man noticed me. And put me in a vase with water All on my own. I’ll die faster now. But I’m happier. At least, The rough men at work Can unwind in my aroma. At least, The little girl will stare at me With eyes glittering like a goldfish. At least, People will see me. And they'll see the daisies too. But they're all the same And none can shine.

 Some people cry dirt And we think their tears have no pain. But there is a soul buried so low That it's invisible. There is a soul buried so low That the rotting smell won’t surface Even after the soul dies. There is a soul buried so low That what comes from it Is only the black sludge that it rests in, Crawls in, Screams to be saved before it is gone forever. But those people cannot be saved Because they don’t hear the scream And will realise it too late That they have no soul anymore. Some people cry dirt And we think their tears have no pain. And we cannot be more right.

 The girl drew a heart on my coffee cup. But that does not mean she likes me. She does it for everyone Like the butterfly kissing every flower Without laying an egg in any one of them, Because the petals are too weak to hold the pupa. The girl drew a heart on my coffee cup. But that does not mean she likes me. She does it for everyone. They have cool jazz. But I’m not going into that cafe Ever again.

 The bees are lucky. They sing the same love song all the time And still attracts the love Of flowers of all colours. The rain is lucky. It doesn’t need to plan where to fall. Because no matter on flower, Rock, Or living being, They reach the soil Seen or unseen. The earth is lucky. The flowers open  Automatically And the birds sing And wind rustles Automatically. But that's all they have to do; The clouds just have to gather And the rain just has to fall. And yet, The rain fails to find a direct path, The clouds cannot maintain harmony And end up punching each other. We have more things to do. Maybe that's the reason For all the chaos. Feel proud!

 Your hair lies on my arms; A black mass Once sweet and wet Like a pink hibiscus, A blade of leaf. Strong; Mangroves holding close a widening river. Now Only a bare island Wounded and pulsing with red skin; Only a black curl Declaring survival amid the ache.

 We just need to look each other in the eye And everything will happen by itself. The birds will sing, The moss on wet rocks will bring fragrance, And the trees will bend to give us fruit. We just need to look each other in the eye And everything will happen by itself. And even if it doesn’t, It troubles no one. Because I see the ocean in your eyes, And taste old wine in your lips. I smell the petrichor When we embrace And hear the beat of the world in your heart. We just need to look each other in the eye, And all beautiful things will happen.

 I look at a black and white photograph; Her face caressed by the sun. I look at the black and white photograph And know the sunlight is yellow. The world too is a huge canvas. But the painter had only black and white. The world too is a huge canvas And we know he intended something more. There is only white and black, But there is something more. It's as if we know what god intended the colours should be Even if he never told us. We don’t know if the colours we think Are the real ones. But they look pretty. So who cares.

 I thought the hill was full of white flowers And ran to lie in the grass; To let them tickle my ears, And drench my shirt in fragrant dew. I thought the hill was full of white flowers And ran to lie in the grass. But the flowers grew wings and flew away; Butterflies: White wings with yellow rings. A Marvel against the cloudless sky; Like a painting coming alive; The paint sticking out here and there Imperfectly, Making it perfect. I thought the hill was full of white flowers And ran to lie in the grass. But the flowers flew away, And all the happiness I could get Touched my heart gently Like a porter being gentle, Yet shaping the clay significantly. But now it's gone And the porter left before the pot was complete. But the lump of clay still stays there, Hardening into some bashed up shape Like it was dug up from the sands of the Nile, Like it is hundreds of years old.

 I woke up in summer, Out of the burning sand Like a baby turtle finding it’s way. But this turtle was born blind And he walked the wrong way. This turtle was born blind And he walked and walked, Wondering why the water did not touch his feet. It never did Because he walked into a cave; Just darkness, But he didn’t know that. Just darkness And a sound of fluttering wings And dripping water. I walked slowly Afraid to fall into some hole in front of me I couldn’t see. I woke up in summer, Out of the burning sand Like a baby turtle never finding it’s way.

 My brother is a hook; A simple thing That's used everywhere. He grabs onto worms and catches fish, He shrinks to hang clothes And sizes up to pull trucks off the highway. He holds the anchor to stop the ship And becomes metaphorical to pull me out of my way. You hang bundles of banana, You hang fish and skinned meat. You screech glass And hang human beings. You might be sad, You might be jolly, You might be broken by the wait you carry. But you fit anywhere. You are useful. It is what makes you miraculous and miserable.

 Life Is a venus fly trap, A toucan, A colourful toad calling us to grab it And then strangling  us for doing so. Life gives beauty, Healing, Wisdom, Learning. Life gives, But life takes even more. Life takes Riches it gave us, People it made us meet, Sanity, And life itself. Life is a man buried in a grave made of diamonds, A cold French fry, A blunt knife striking hard enough to penetrate. Life gives And life takes. But it takes a lot more. It takes away life itself.

 The sun is beautiful And the gulls are ugly. But the man drowns And both of them just keep watch. The hands splash around And feet kick up bubbles like foam on beer. Then the hands stay still, Rise up As if to praise god And go down, Down, Down In a Nagasaki of bubbles, Dying as fast as they form. The sun is beautiful And the gulls are ugly. But the man drowns And both of them just keep watch.

 I'll wait for you On this rusty bench near an overflowing rubbish bin, Spray painted with black and red symbols That look like some ancient language. I'll wait for you On this rusty bench near an overflowing rubbish bin, Until the garbage man comes to empty it, Until the trees toss around orange leaves And become skeletons Whose thin fingers break under the snow. I hope you'll come To make me a fireplace. I hope you'll come To brew for me warm soup, Or make steaming tea. Take your time. Even if you're late, I'll wait. The trees should have so much courage To be naked in the winter. We are what we are surrounded by. So I'll look at the trees And learn courage. It will be My fireplace, My soup, My warm tea. But I’ll wait for you To get more firewood to my fireplace, To add pepper to my soup, To add sugar to my tea. But I’ll wait for you And I’ll kiss you on your neck While you add sugar, While you add pepper. And I’ll kiss you on the lips When we sit at the f

 Come to me like fireflies in the dark So I may catch you in a bottle And look at you forever With green light in my eyes. Come to me like the wind on a calm day at sea So I may steer this ship to the port And never get on it again. Come to me like fire trying to stay alive On a piece of wood in the snow, Like grass through a cracked wall, Like an empty bottle of wine thought to be full, Ignored by the waiter. I just want to meet you again. I know That it's like trying to complete a jigsaw puzzle With a leaf for a missing piece, Like trying to create railway tracks By driving trains in the desert. It just doesn’t work. I kick the door and hurt my feet, I jump into the water and drown. I kiss in my dreams And dance alone in a room, Pretending like Tchaikovsky plays in the background. Sometimes they knock and I don’t answer, Sometimes they tell and I don’t open the door. I must  be sleeping. Yes. And I wait for you to kiss me, Dance with me, Awaken me. I am asleep.

 We create alternatives For our dark desires; Our desires of Fighting, Aggression, Sex. But these alternatives Are not alternatives At all. They have limitations; Rules that say Do not punch here, Do not grab here, Do not kick in the groin. We loved to punch each other. So we invented boxing. The winner Is the person who punches least; The person who lays one right punch. It is archery On the human face, Where the arrow  Is the arm, And the nose Is the bull's eye. But it isn’t enough. So we take to the streets And punch, Kick, Murder.

 He walked through the desert To find what he was missing He had a bottle of water It's lips he couldn't stop kissing. There was a sandstorm And he held his bottle tight. He found the dune in front was missing And something was not right. In the sand, these words were written; “What you search for does not exist What you search for always changes. Today, a fist of wood; tomorrow, an iron fist Angered, he poured the water to blur the words. There was nothing left And he died.

 There was bamboo at school, Written over by names of loved ones, Names of no longer loved ones, Hearts with arrows. There was bamboo at school, And I used to sit there alone sometimes Like the other boys and girls Who etched in Names of loved ones, Names of no longer loved ones, Hearts with arrows. There was bamboo at school, And some boys hid there to smoke cigarettes And etch the first profane thing that came to mind; Just words, Drawings of nudity, Or both. Look at the bamboo now and judge them And you'll always be wrong About where they are now. Life's chaotic And they were too. Maybe that's why they are where they are.

Everything's cool. But you stand out Like the red bill of a black swan. You stand out Like a black and white photo In this age of colour. There is no good or bad. You stand out And that's enough. That's enough Because most people are statues Staying in the same place, Being pooped on by the birds Which know the statue will go nowhere. It's sad. But here you are; A snowball rolling down an infinite hill, Growing bigger and bigger, Breaking off into more snowballs, Each growing bigger and bigger; Always running, Jumping, Changing course. Always being in many places at the same time. They can’t categorize you And it makes you You.