My Stand Point.

For my musings are not literature, not even close.

They are mere reflections, characterless

Of the life that I lived, mediocre.

Compromised lovers and comfortable love stories.

A cheap book made into a cheaper film.

Half Bitch.

Slipped at the age of 15
And never learnt a lesson.

Slipped again at 18 and 22

Well, nothing again.

I gave my heart in style

Succumbed when I got no replies.

Let is suffocate in a dingy chamber.

Till is ceased to exist

Or so I thought.

Love, in all its velocity

blew off me, my charm

Love in all its texture

corroded my being, my all.

For love it comes in such fierceness.

A simple rubbing on my shoulder,

is now a itchy red scar.

And now Im what they call

A stone hearted half bitch.

A Devious Appeal.

Treason, rape, murder and theft

And how many more, shall I make you count?

You did these to my soul and my being,

Forsake my freedom, my love.

Love, the most essential,

Love, taken so forcefully.

Everyday I wake up,

I wish for you to change.

For humans to be more humane,

For masses to consider.

Adopt me.

I appeal again.

I do not ask of you, what is yours,

I just want a validation for what is mine.

I shall leave you alone, a promise.

For I breathe with my likes,

I thrive with them, just a handful.

But for when I venture out,

I want no raised eyebrows, or fists,

Or pointed fingers.

I need invisibility.

I need approval.

What I ask of you - less,

What I demand of you - essential.

What I pray for - survival.

Why then ignore it?

Why then fight it?

Why suppress?

I have begged and cried.

I was kind enough to not steal.

But know this, time and again,

Forced and deprived many a times;

Evil is not born, its made.

A hurt ego, and a bruised past,

A foggy future, with all to lose.

I would be a villain, classic.

For I tread on a path, without weakness.

Consider this an alarm.

Boiling on low flame,

You are brewing me to perfection,

Compelling me to spill, burn and scar.

Consider this a warning.

I’m hopeful and determined.

Its mine and I shall have it.

With the morals burning down,

An obsession is taking over.

This my final plead -

Hand me over what was never yours.  

A Writer's Block.

The swaying trees,
Rejoicing the monsoon,
And the falling water on my forehead.
Everything that is meant to be wonderful and poetic.
Everything a desperate romantic would hope for.
It was perfect, at-least it used to be.
But today, it made no sense
It didn't move me to write.
It didn't move me to tears.
The ripples today,
And the glowing fireflies, in hiding
Seemed more technical than magical.
And the miracle seems to have lifted.
Why so ? why this vision ? Devoid.
Something has changed.
Something has gone missing, for too long.
Could it be the happiness.
And the Love, divine.
For all write about love.
For all write about how wonderful it is.
No.
When I fall in love, I'm too busy.
Too busy, loving.
It sure is the anti, a heartbreak.
It sure is the misery, the pain,
The lack of a lover,
It makes me pick up my pen.
The hurt from a loved one,
Compels me to howl, on paper.
Till I feel it.
Till I have it in me.
And today its been long.
Since I fell in love, to break my heart.
Since I felt like a poet.
Since I wrote poetry.

A Tiff.

For today when he sat down in a perfect sitting with dim yellow lights, cool breeze and some drizzling, inspiration did not come to him. He fought hard, for the nib to scribble some words on the once blank sheet, now marked with desperation. After a couple of trials some lines appeared but they didn’t make any sense. A mediocre gibberish. Multiple topics of wonderful poetry passed his head, but none of them good enough. Nothing moved him today. He has been like this since the past few days. The writer in him was suffocating  and dying a painful death. It felt like that. 

 He desperately had to fall in love and get his heart broken again.

Subjective.

So what name do I give you

A stirrer, soul shaker

An amen, or a life restorer

Or just a one night stand.

Leaving Home.

For what joy did I move away from the town and the boys ?
For what reasons I escaped the haven of men, probable loves ?
Probably I was running out of reasons to Love.
Love, so venting, so demanding.
So heartbreaking.

The Call

How long has it been since wood excited me ?

Since the colors painted,

Sounds and smells around me ?
Brass in its luster seducing.
Stone in all its coolness, pacifying.
That muddy smell,
The erotic weathered paint,
Intoxication from an antique object.
One old unlikely embossed tanjore 
reminds me of a kingship.
Gold, rubies and reckless diamonds.
Ah the moth eaten carpets.
Have they become more beautiful with time.
The faded silk and some knots missing.
Those chipped ceramics andplastered faux
These are not the object of a Japanese king, appreciative,
But a broke indian king, spent.
It is a beautiful melody, dying.
A fragile dream, awaiting the intrusive morning.
I too shed a single tear
A silent protest
A helpless lover.