Category Archives: Poetry

21st Century Friends

Friends that you’d make,

In the 21st century,

Will be people of an odd kind.

They would not mean hate;

But love,

It would be presented in a puzzle,

With parts that won’t always fit.

 

They will value you,

As a trophy to be won,

As a laurel hung to their necks,

To show to everyone on the way.

And on some days,

They will throw you in the glass showcase,

where you’d still be admired,

But just because you look like a collectible for the eyes.

 

They will hold you like a bistro menu card,

And choose, one by one,

The parts that they will give love to,

And cross off the items,

That don’t sate their appetite,

For which you must be ignored.

 

You will often run

Into the walls of their expectations.

Walls made of tougher stuff than steel,

Walls that’ll never be low enough for you to cross over,

Walls that’ll you’ll be asked to break,

But those walls would only break you.

 

And some off-timers would also see you,

People befitting the definition of people,

Tossed from a bygone era into your life,

For keeping you at bay with things like love

And hope and dreams.

 

But mostly, it’ll be tough to be you,

In people who can’t really stand the ‘you’, that,

They are always asking you to be.

21st century comes with screw-ups in its line of code,

You’d have to learn the language of love,

With many variables,

And very few constants.

 

In A Lawless Land

And, with crossed fingers once, I sat
In a moving train and wondered,
How did the world get itself
In such a rush?
People running in all directions
Blinded by reflections of gold;
While I always found myself wanting
of hope, light or torn shreds, to hold.

And with crossed fingers, I sat,
Waiting, just like everybody else,
Waiting for life to pass by,
Perhaps waiting for someone to come;
Waiting for this season to change,
Looking for shade to hide from the sun;
Waiting for better times to come.

For blood or blissful glory,
Or for completely new lines
For an old bitter story.
For justice of words,
For sinful vengeance or God above;
An ode or a requiem,
A little something for long lost love!

And while I waited,
I forgot about footprints in the sand,
And yet I felt the burden of ages,
Upon the lines of fate,
Lines drawn in the palm of my hand;
And I just sat there hoping,
Hoping for justice, in a lawless land.

A Plea For Help

You know how I’m going to end?
I’ll die dissatisfied.
That’s what is going to happen.
I’ll spend my entire life like this.
Looking for things,
Connecting them.
And eventually, I’ll realize that it was never the answer to anything.

We’re meant to learn to love and to be kind;
To heal and to help heal.
And here I am,
Collecting things,
Like souvenirs;
As if I could always carry them around,
Or wear them
Like a prize perhaps.

I know, I tend to know,
I always do.
But I have so much inside
Which is neither focused nor channelized;
And it oozes out of me,
Like blood out of a pin sized prick,
My thoughts are everywhere.
All over the place.
And I need help controlling them.
Please help.
Save my soul.

Oh Enemy

Oh enemy,
rest it a little longer,
a little deeper
in my chest.
Your sword
knows the pleasure,
exhilarating in my veins
as they empty out
drop by painful drop.
The evil in me
crackles and breaks
as steel wrenches
the heart blackened by it.
Bereave the soul
and dry it of mercy,
let it writhe and wriggle
in its final moments,
soon the light will
break it free
through the hole
you dug.

Oh enemy,
Let it seep
till the edge of death,
my body will fall
into rejoice
as it falls out of
the evil captain.
Wash your blade
when it’s done
and grind it sharper
for more like me.

A Writer Will Understand

For days and days
I feel
That I cannot write anymore.
My words don’t convey a meaning
That frustrates me even more.

On and on
It goes
Till this tide sweeps all over my face
Making it hard to breathe
Only then does my mind
Decide to release it all.

Back and forth
The tip of my pen
Oozes red; filling paper;
With the blood out of my veins.
And then I am at peace
After letting it all get drained.

To write, is a gift;
They say.
But I would like to convey
‘Tis more or less a curse
To live like this.

To choke on your words
Before you can finally cough them out
To know more,
Than you need to know
To look around and absorb all emotions
As if they were your own
Feel strangled with their presence
Lest you find the perfect words to release
All that you feel.

What I say,
You cannot understand
Lest you feel; and write.

What I say,
You will not understand
Lest you feel; and write.

The Jewelry Casket

Glistening, gleaming, high-profile gems
That adorn Her Highness’ charm
Enjoy the bubble-like life of glamour
While outside the jewelry casket.

In light, they sparkle
And glitter with delight
But once the party is over
To the dark depths of the casket, they are exiled.

Like these very gems,
Are you and I, my friend,
Like these very gems,
Are all of us.

Taking pleasure in short-lived things
Then returning to the abyss of life.

The darkness, we ourselves have caused
The web of despair, we ourselves have woven
All of this
Is exactly what we ourselves have chosen.

Thought, expression, freedom; Encaged.
Like little canaries.
Enslaved, bonded and shackled
To a life of insanity.

An Ode To A Dead Street

Somewhere along a misty trail
I sold my shadow for free.
And on the old dead street, I walked
When I gave up in entirety.
Trembling hands gave me
More than my soul could hold
Those feeble words gave me
The burning rage to be bold.
While I dreamt only to forget
You gave me dreams to keep.
And gave me in my waking life
Every dream I saw in my sleep.

Now while you lie silently still
I pray an old song brings you back to life.
And people who once walked on you
Soon walk you by.
Has the world forgotten
The sacrifices of trampled street?
Or its destined creed to care?
That one day when it is deemed unfit to walk,
They just assume you lead nowhere.

So stay.
Stay, stay until the morning light
Stay and we shall reminisce;
Reminisce in the glory of a forgotten night.

Two Smokers

Under a starry night,

Down the old deserted road,

In the ruins of a tavern,

Two smokers smoked.

 

While soft paper edges burned,

Souls were set free,

Of the mind’s worries

There was not even one to feel.

Eyes were awake,

Thoughts had slept,

Memory had returned,

Heart had wept.

 

To one, asks another,

“Why do you still come here?

It’s gotten old, it’s all broken;

Got yourself no place elsewhere?”

 

Follows a voice with soaring fumes,

“In the brokenness,

Of this place,

There is a solace.

Yesterday, I bought a mirror,

It broke today.

In the cracks of it,

I saw myself. Broken.

Into distinct shapes.

So here I rest, in brokenness,

Homely brokenness.”

 

“Oh, boy” smirked the listener,

“You must be high,

Don’t let this smoke get you,

Like it has got me.

It got all of me.

Once I was a spirit,

Full of life, high on smoke.

But then, I became full of ash,

Low on life, in and out,

And I thought who am I,

To question God’s great plan,

So I let this smoke,

Consume me.”

 

Cough, cough, cough,

Coughingly, both laughed,

Making sense of each other.

So, they stopped talking.

And tried floating on the air.

Just like an overhead cloud of smoke.

“Ya know man”, broke the silence,

The broken fellow.

“Everything that’s in pieces today,

Will be used to build tomorrow.

Ya know, build buildings,

build cars, build people.

‘Cause, nothing’s wasted.

It’s just time and place,

One always searches the other,

And when they meet,

Things get themselves all right.”

 

“Sure do, young fella”

Spoke the lowly spirit,

“Ask a man, who doesn’t know,

All the things you said.

Sure do things fix ’em up.

You see those stars?

They were a bunch of crap too.

At a time.

And see ’em now.

They rule the mighty skies.

So, yeah. You got the truth.”

 

Both laughed and passed out.

So did the night.

So did the smoke.

And so did the inner fight.