Archive for the ‘poems’ Category

I find that my imagination flourishes with the  lemony scent of lemons,

That on rainy days, as the skies open up and pelt the crusty dry earth, my mind wanders,

And on calm starry nights, as my myopic eyes try to make out the different constellations and I pull a solitary act, words turn over in my mind.

At that moment, it doesn’t matter to me where a word goes, or the fate of my imagination,

I am somewhere between reality and oblivion,

That space of  anonymity is where I found you,

Hiding between my lone words, struggling to come out into the agreeable vicinity,

We are the same at that moment, yet terribly different,

It is nothing and nothingness at loggerheads,

The fight to get you out into the open is bumpy and lethal,

Bloodlust for the longest of days,


I like to discover things.

I discover, that, the Big Bang was really noiseless,

That the lemony scent I love so much, would be sweeter than strawberries,

That each time I glimpse a full moon, I always see the same side..

So now, I discover you,

Tall and lone.

Solitary and nuclear.

Venomous smile and lanky frame.

A fine relationship with your feline friends.

My imagination halts for a second…my heart too,

I am stepping off a high cliff uncertain whether the parachute will open or not,

It will be a bad bloody fall or a bloody good fall,

And as the air whooshes around my ears and the watery wind blows into my willow eyes,

I suddenly realize that the Big Bang must’ve been noisy after all,

And you are there to break my fall.

Neatly and timely seconds before I hit the ground.

A bloody good fall it appears.

I feel a happiness so profound that my lingering fear skides away into the green-eyed universe.

I am here now.

You are here now.

There is a promise of more to come,

For you have peopled me.










The imprints of my glasses on the side of my face tell a story,
A riveting, yet harmless story,
But a story nonetheless-
A story of endless routine,
A story of unacknowledged complications,
A story of a life disguised as tough crosswords and complicated puzzles,
A tall-tale of restrictions-
     Restricted emotions
      Restricted need
      Restricted completeness
In all this, my vision is painfully blurry and it barely notices the endless posibilities of life around me,
There’s a potentially entertaining lover’s quarrel just two metres from my restricted perch,
There’s a crawling baby guffawing toothlessly at nothing in particular,
And the flickering lights in a nearby abandoned building would be considered creepy by the next normal person,
But I don’t notice all these-
I don’t want to notice-
The indifference is comfortable,
I don’t even notice the rapidly swaying door I’m presently walking into-

In two lengthy seconds, I finally understand why writers before me have said that the universe, or God has a sick sense of humour.
Or more accurately, the heart wants what it wants.

I understand these exclusively cheesy commentaries when you bumped me right out of my absent-mindedness,
And suddenly it was like the rivers had burst their banks and the waters hurried to drown anything in their wake,
My shifting gaze met your piercing one and my heart burst at its seams,
You reached out two strong arms to steady me and a genie escaped its enclosed bottle,

I felt. I felt. I felt.



triction did not exist in my vocabulary.
I let the emotions consume me.

Affliction and confusion were the first to assault me,
Then like a burst of light and sun and oceans,
Reckless passion and something that felt suspiciously like raw nerves started a wild inferno in the pit of my stomach,
I stepped back-shocked, for the impact was staggering,

My glasses, askew from what had become my favorite collission in my history of clumsiness, slipped and clattered to the floor,
They went unnoticed,
For presently, I was in a hypnotic trance,
I felt steady fingers at the imprints on the side of my face,
And I knew there was no going back to  restricted indifference.


UNexpected ExpeCtaTIOns.

Posted: October 11, 2015 in poems, Poetry

And she gets…bored. Rather easily.
Her sleek boots tap steadily to the ticking of the clock,
Her clear eyes are set straight on the still silhouette with irritatingly dulcet tones on the opposite side of the table,
Her slim fingers are wrapped tightly around the chocolate coffee mug,
Any more tightness, her veins or the mug will pop,
The clock ticks away,
Maybe he’ll unravel his amazing side bit by bit,”
Just a matter of time,
The clock ticks away,

“Maybe he’ll unleash some funny dosses of useless banter,”
Some up-to-date scam to excite her,
And the clock ticks away,
Still, nothing.

He sees the grimace behind her pretentious grin-albeit subtle,
“Maybe she’ll ignore the awkward way I push my glasses up my nose,”
“Maybe she won’t smirk again when I say she’s as beautiful as Cleopatra, “

“You’re as beautiful as Cleopatra, “
That smirk again on her perfectly sculpted mouth,
She sighs.
He sighs.
She says, “This is going to sound incredibly heartless, but you’re boring, “

“Well, so are you. “


LiFe CyCleS.

Posted: June 14, 2015 in poems, Poetry
Tags: , , , ,

It’s a gamble, life.
It’s playing poker without a poker face,
One minute you’re winning against all odds,
The next you’re stuck- enclosed in four pale walls radiating doom,
You take it in stride-the doom,
If you’re lucky enough,
Survival instincts kick in,
“Survive” “Survive” “Survive”-the latest mantra in your mind,
So like a desperate soldier on enemy soil, you fight,
And sometimes, you win and go back to that happy place-
Sometimes, you fold in on yourself-
There’s no fight left in you,
A sense of foreboding kicks in,
Soon it’s defeat like its never been told,
Or heard-
Or written,
It’s unbelievable loss recounted from the mouth of a mother mourning the unfortunate death of her child,
The hopelessness is never far off,
It creeps in as steady as a hand on a tiller,
As confident as a cancerous tumor meandering its way in an unfortunate part of the body,
Worthlessness, meanwhile, would be waiting impatiently in line to combine forces with hopelessness and defeat and loss-
And together, they’d conjure up nasty thoughts in your tired mind-
“Throw yourself in the freeway, why don’t you? ”
“Wouldn’t it be lovely to see how fast hypothermia kicks in?”
Ultimately, you win over all those voices,
You sigh after your victory,
As you patiently await the next cycle-
Wondering in your heart of hearts if that would be the one to eventually end it all.

It’s the irrational excitement that gets your heart to tripple it’s beats at the glance of a lover,
It’s the thrill of a rollercoaster ride,
It’s the frisson of electrifying electricity at the barest touch of a soul mate,
It’s the gentle breeze on a hot day,
It’s the appearance of the sun on a gloomy winter morning,
It’s the relief of waking up from a bad dream,

It’s the immediate shock at receiving bad news,
It’s the dejection you feel at rejection,
It’s the horror of a nightmare,
It’s the understandable fear of heights,
It’s the irrational phobia of dragons,
It’s the complete dislike of a moonless night,

Both sides are truly even when you love solitude.

She can feel the beginnings of a nasty headache, steadily creeping in from the base of her neck, meandering excitedly into her overworked brain-she feels it traipsing it’s arrogant gait around the toughened walls of her skull, completely ready to thump at her unfortunate head over and over until she can’t function anymore. Until her brain refuses to think up plots and similes and expressions and locations.
But- these pages must show. These currently blank pages must fill up right before her tired eyes.
It’s an expected struggle between her brain and her hands.
Like a petulant child throwing a tantrum, her brain is sulking-it’s white matter and it’s veins and nerves and arteries are all struck numb.
“No, we won’t think up more stuff for you, ”
“No, you can’t write tonight, ”
“It’s late you need to sleep. WE need to sleep,
But her hands rebel against her rebellious brain as she stares down at her blank pages.
Scribbling unintelligible words, she can feel the development of a plot.
Tonight, a new love poem will grace the earth,
Tomorrow, if her brain behaves, it might be a short story set in ancient Egypt, she doesn’t know-she can’t rely on her brain,
Sometimes he rebells for months, guffawing stupidly as she sits and stares at her invisible pages,
Sometimes she hears him whispering that it’s not his fault that she can’t write-why is she blaming him, he asks-
She doesn’t have an appropriate answer to his question,
So there she is, impatiently waiting for her brain to come back from his long vacation,
For these pages must show.

He must think we’ll let him strut around In his confident gait,
He must think we- my spiteful heart and I, will let him brandish his nicely crooked smile for all to fawn over,
He must be utterly foolish to conclude that my twitchy eyes will see him charm another person,
How embarrassing that he thought we’d stand by as his stoic frame leaned on another’s door,
It is unacceptable to see him run a hand through his coal black hair,
How amazingly callow that he thought I’d stand by and watch from the sidelines as he charmed his way into another soon-to-be devastated heart,
He needs to know his actions won’t wash,
I need a plan.
A short, precise plan.BUT-
I can’t see another way-
I can’t think of an alternative-
I can’t.
I can’t.
We can’t.
My devastated mind and I can’t imagine an easier way out-
And, oh, my poor heart-
Beating unsteadily somewhere in my heavy chest-
He can’t give me a solution-
I need a plan.
I can feel the hot embers of rising anger,
I can feel the panic tighten my chest,
The dejection at the rejection,
I see red-
And possibly yellow-
And suddenly he’s in my line of vision-
I swear, ladies and gentlemen of the jury,
It was the anger,
Blame the anger-
Not me. Never me.