Lullaby...

One more time,                                  Waking off a sleep
I stand...


The temperature of  the real                 Brushes the skin.



The fake fluidity of the mirror
I keep looking for me                           In it...



Afraid of broken dreams
I drift away                                          A bit more
From
The remains of my innocence...




A few dreams gathered,                       Without a reason
The moist eyelashes
The arteries pumping pain
All of it remains                                    Very intimate.




Behind a faded smile,stays
The going away,of,                                A lost love.
Reviving one more of an illusion
I don't sit down,writing                          Another song...




A fancied desire to overlook
Goes down the food pipe                                      
Wet,                                                    Off cheap liquor.





A few words,found,without notice
And another of a pretended love poem
Lost,amidst the silence of drunken halogens...





One more time
I sing the lullaby                                   To myself
Wishing
The length I had walked wrong,is
Washed,off a sleep.....

I am...

Bloodline is inherited.
Not the poetry within.

Born off a poet       Doesn't make you one.
Nor does it             Ease your road.



Poetry isn't born off a fresh rose.
But,
The wounds,off the thorns.



Morning does show the day.
Just that,sometimes
The previous day's glory clings on          A patch of clouds
In the fresh morning sky.



I wanted to write.
But,
My lineage was too heavy.
I was afraid of failures,        Of disgrace
Till I was pushed against the wall.


I knew I had to write.          I just had to write.


People pulled me down.       My shoulders,weighed down off history.
I tripped.I fell.                      And rose again,to poetry.


I have read Tagore.        I have read Shakespeare.

Not Picasso.                  Neither Neruda.


I'm just Pablo.....

Fairytale...

My phone,lying on the bed
Declares existence,a brief glint of light.

The lucid canopy unveils,one more
Of a fairytale love note.



The head,far over heels.
Not a butterfly strolling the stomach's length.
I can't fake,being naive
Peddling one more of a story...




Losing myself in your thoughts
I don't ignore my nightly laze.
In a sleep,filled of fatigue
There isn't an unnecessary fantasy.




A bit of a moment's lure
A bit,off the day's habits.


One more of just a page,in
A novel,they call life.


Trickling off the tides of time,moments
Flip another of a leaf.

In the forlorn sky
One more of an orb sinks.

History cannot be lived in
Time sprints the pages of a calendar
And,abruptly,one more of a life,is
Forgotten,leaving behind,just a name.


Of love,between real and reality
I couldn't finish my fairytale.....

Footpath...

The habit of a half-starved stomach
Sleeps,embracing the insignificant entity...





On the edge of the footpath
A beggar,without a name to call.

All of her self,masked
In some dirty nickels and dimes...





A few familiar flies
Once,twice,thrice
Kisses,grown of neglect
A thick skin of the city's dirt...


The cheap chalice of clay
Every bit of it,blended
In,a graphic mortal,and
The insipid stories of,one more...




Another of the eyes,that dreamt
Wasted,at the length of the poetry,penned...



Alloyed in the last smoke,of
A depleted cigarette.


One more of a spoilt innocence
Contained,in the tobacco-stained walls...





People,or just the loneliness within
Prefers losing itself,in the crowd
If,that could be the cure,for a moment...





Perched alone,more of habit
The lamp post by the road
Hides,in its tired eyes
A thousand stories,untold
A spent footpath of the city.....

Dying to live...

I'm dying to live.

I have a life to live.


For years,I longed,and
I wanted to die...



The road was long.

The sun was harsh.



The scars,time left behind
Never grew skin,again...




Dreams bled,some to ashes...

And death looked the only escape...



One last time,before it's over...


I'm living life,in a day.....

Plagiarised...

The crowd around,the people
It's all so synthetic...


They live,but,penned thoughts
They thought were their's...


Not a dream to sleep with
No life to wake to...


A paper louse feeding on dictates
It thought,was essential,to survive...



An unblemished story is a forbidden fruit.

Stale leftovers are easier,a habit.....

It's not love...

I don't love you as the red rose.

Not because you are a diamond.

I love you as the piece of glass
The darkness between life and shadow...






I love you as the dew drop
That carries the essence of light.

I love you as the pitch black
That defines the brown of the sky...






I love you,not for a reason
Not of passion or intricacies.

It's not that I love you,but
The lurching desire to hate you,gives in...





There's not love between us,just
The warmth you carry,in me
The fragrance you leave behind
They are all,mine.....