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Falling in and out

You are the ray of my day
The moon of my nights
The bamboo of my flute
The minutes of my time
You are the flowers in my spring
The leaves in my autumn
The snow in my winter
Well… Errrmmm.. You are also my sweat in the summers
The ads between my shows
The fog when I drive
And yes! The owls when I sleep
The landslide when I trek
That cluster of dirt on the shores
Clobber along the waves and reach my toes
You are the violinist when Rome burns
My speed breaker at every turn
The mold in my only piece of bread
What would you be thinking about me?
I know you won’t care
Or...you might still remember me
The memories we made
The struggles we wade
The nights of unrest
Of passion, of lust,
Then of tears with regret
Also in absence, of hate
But haven’t we been there
Or have we not?
Has it faded, or
Has it deluded?
Have you fluttered away
From the abode of my kind?
Or are you trickling down
Slowly melting away
Like the flakes of white snow
On a sunny winter morning?
I feel you fluttering in
In and out of the cracked skull
I can just keep seeing you
Your deep brown eyes
Hair curled up encircling your long neck
Earrings dangling in the air
As you nod your head vigourously
And laugh at my every joke.
It is a crisp, sunny morning after all
I see you watching me close
And smiling to yourself
As my fingers accidentally brush your cheek
Or not so accidentally..
I smile slyly
As my emotions gyrate unto you
Unto the memories we create
The struggles we might wade
I feel you might be the ray of my day
And the moon of my nights…

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To write is to dwell

FEBRUARY 15th, 2012





















What writing means to me...

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When I was studying in kindergarten, I used to visit a nearby shop with my dad. My dad was busy shopping for groceries and I engaged myself in observing things around me. The people who had mixed emotions that outshone on their faces, an old man cycling with a lot of strain, probably getting back home, the lady vendor with her dirty saree pinned up to her waist and squatting on the floor, selling vegetables, the autowala bargaining with his potential customer, the green trees which arched high with its countless leaves, the flowers that smile at me on the road side, happy child…

I'm too shallow to write a verse

I'm too shallow to write a verse To wrap around the twists and turns To dwell unto my own, I do Living somebody else's life or my own? Shrouded under piles of thought, I scribble, thinking only of the applause.
I'm too shallow to write a verse or two To make ends meet, I'm too cuckoo. I'm not the classic, scratching blue wooing 'em, tearing 'em apart  with every word.
I'm not the one who rhymes nor the one with notes for those lyrics. I'm the one who scribbles blotching blue on all my troubles, roiling over moments back and forth, trying to string those stray words, into at least a doggerel. See, I don't make sense.  I told you, I'm too shallow to pen that sonnet, that ballad, that haiku, that refrain, that ode.
I'm forcing it out all that gibberish snowballed  unto mine, to chime and rhyme  but nevertheless I realise in time, I'm to shallow to be read over cheese and wine.