poems
Dragon-slayer
You ask me not to imagine, You ask me not to build, Castles of glass, and sand. You are afraid of what they do to me. What they make me do. You’re right. In parts. I walk in the castle, With my eyes open. I know what they are.
poem
poems
Sometimes, I wish
Sometimes, I wish I were a painter, And not a poet, So that I had a better reason, To sit, and stare, To have you, sitting across from me. You’d be my muse, As you are now, But not just in my head, You’d be out there, Physically,
poems
Why build walls?
We build walls. Bricks. Cement. Slug. We build walls, Strong, high, menacing, Forbidding any to breach, Enter our hearts, And minds, and souls. When in need, We go deeper, Inside the shell. Do you know, Why we do that? Why we trust us, More than others? More than those, Who
poems
Washed lands
There is on an average one poem that I write each day. That, gives me at least one thing to post each day here. Come to think of it, that’s a good way to manage post a day. On that note, here’s one I wrote yesterday, as it
love
Who am I to you?
What am I to you? Who are you to me? These are the questions. Questions without ends. Beginnings, or otherwise. Infinite. Parallel. Never-ending. The who, the what of us. Who am I? What am I? What is the basis of us? It’s not that. Not the who. Or the
love
I hold you
I hold you, close to me. I push you, shove you, into the wall. I touch you, my hands on your hips. I kiss you, on your neck. I am intoxicated, with you. I am on fire, so are you. I undo your dress, The little zip at the back,
love
Everything withers away
Everything withers away. Everything. I envied something yesterday, Today, when I walked past it, I saw the cracks appear in it, Almost out of nowhere! But then, I remembered, Everything withers away. Everything. It’s about time, all the time. Time numbs things out, pain, pleasure, Beauty, strength. Time numbs
love
My muse
I’ve had muses.. now and before. I’ve had muses. That thing, which held my hand, And walked me through a story, Or a poem I wrote, later. That thing, which was actually A person. Or so I thought. But then the person left. My muse however, did not.
love
The second one
Come with me, you had said. Come. Love. Live. I’m not the ordinary, the same, the mundane. I’m a poet, a writer, a lover. I’ll teach you what love is, I’ll shower you in prose, make you my muse. What happened to that? I ask you,
love
Do you remember?
Do you remember the plains my love? Do you remember the rains my love? You are amongst the waters now, In a land of plenty, and more. There is water all around, The weather’s nice and gay. The Sun shines, but just enough, To leave a tinge of red,
poems
That blue bird!
A bird sat on my shoulder that day. No, really! It had pristine blue feathers, A long mundane beak, And a crown on its head. It sang a song I hadn’t ever heard before, A song so beautiful, so melodious That it made me forget The world I lived
fiction writing
Why should I read?
We’ve been taught from a very early age to look for stuff when we read, you know stuff like morals, summaries, questions, answers. I remember being taught poems in Hindi, my mother tongue, the language I was most comfortable with. Taught, yes. I remember being taught the meaning of