People seek ‘their’ people in people When they get lost in an uncaring lot. They wear symbols to stand out, Carry clothes that talk loud of a place Demarked on a patch of land called home. They smile, when they do, at their reflections, And
Eyes of glory, Eyes with a story, You hold my gaze with reflections of a star; I think they are diamonds you wear for eyes. If you hadn’t turned around for a furtive glance, I might have failed to notice your eyes looking into mine,
Books are parallel dimensions, interwoven shades of reality hammered by our heads. It is a twitch in our brain that spurts out at contemplative junctures to say those right words that often end up being unsaid. They are also acts that never happened, the what
I know it is hard to get, But those little soft fingers You have rolled up in your palms Are anything but innocent; They have scraped against someone’s insides; You have come from a place of pain. They have suffered in silence When you were eating
Every second I am out of it. I feel like I am running out of time. That cliched image of me clinching sand as it slides past my palm paints the canvas in my head. I have created these little deadlines unknowingly, and I have
I am walking.I think I am;The road walks the other way.A tiny kiosk sells death in all sizesWhile people flock in huge numbers to die;They ask for their favorite cigarette flavors.A girl preens her hair trying to findWhat she doesn’t look like in a vehicle’s
They would rise in unison, walk around like ghosts and would fall into their chairs as if controlled by a remote. Their big hopeless eyes would stoop with them in their dullness. Their bleak lashes would then flap occasionally to reveal more dead inside –
People often implore; They want words to eat that make sense. They seek this from a twisted man Who is trying to understand What words mean in his head As they twine and whine and intertwine To spit out what glib isn’t, And the profound
We are the broken people. The fallen souls. The shattered hearts. The twisted, constricted echoes of a hollow body. We don’t make a sound. We croon. We weep. We are always crying, fading away gradually from the inside. Our angst nibbles us every moment. It
Remember, when I brought my vivid painting to you With hopeful eyes to see what you thought of it? I came to you to seek your genial nod at things I could make. Remember, how you laughed at my shoddy house, at a skewed face?