Against all reality

Like piercing screams,
from a mouth glued tight.
A heart wandering left,
against all reasons right.
Like a palm soaked in blood
swiped across my tender lips
Monstrosity of a puppet play
life so often mimics

Like words scattered apart
before a hungry literate
Licking his way to a poem,
like on fire his tongue be lit.

Let this be written down
by veins of desperation,
a part of me forever stationed

There’s a world beneath my skin,
as real as I have always been
Turning myself inside out,
cause I want you to see.
There’s a world in me against all reality.

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On a cold night

On a cold night,
on an empty shore,
fire wood burning,
stacked against each other,
flickering,
those branches ,
living a war between
ashes and fire.
And the performance of this catastrophe melting in your iris.
like a dance with silence for its song.
The smoke from your parted lips,
The empty glass of whiskey,
Half buried in the sand half surviving.
Was it the noise of the shore, the wind the night
that made you get up and leave?
Or was it the silence within?

I watch as you leave,
my eyes follow the impressions of your feet on the shore.

The leaf you stepped on,
that crumpled under your feet,
I’m right there,
Right behind you.
In places your heart has heard but not listened.

In the embers that turned to ashes,
Whiskey glass that would fill and drift to waters
Slowly,
one wave at a time.
The smoke from your slightly parted lips
that drifts and your eyes don’t follow it,
sway away in the wind

From where I sit,
I bathe in your shadow falling behind.

I realize, we miss out on so much when we leave.
that, or we always stay for all that amuses us.
You were always fascinated by the beginnings,
I with the end.

No wonder you left when beginnings wore off,
I still live there.
In the embers that turned to ashes,
Whiskey glass that would fill and drift to waters
Slowly,
one wave at a time.
The smoke from your lips that drifts and your eyes don’t follow it,
sway away in the wind

I still live there!

Till there’s no tomorrow to see.

For all this world takes,

For all this life gives,

Ill hold your hand tight,

For the rest of me that lives.

For the golden sunset,

That drops a curtain on the blue light ,

I’ll stay baby I’ll stay as the sky turns to night.

For everything you did,

You did for me,

I’ll be here, I’ll be here,

Till there’s no tomorrow to see.

The sea curls up, to the shore..

I’ve watched the sand go,

and the sea come back for more..

And it’s been so,

For years I’m sure..

The sea is here and so is the shore,

For everything you did,

You did for me,

I’ll be here, I’ll be here,

Till there’s no tomorrow to see.

The truth of existence

Existence!
We all have a circle,
a circle with
the past, the future, the being,
not being, the lies and most importantly the truth.
The circle of existence.
We are all circling at the circumference.
Some try to reach the center, some don’t,
some unaware, some ignorant.

All our lives we walk, run, swim along the radius,
but still,  washed back to the shores of illusion.
Illusion of what existence is, far away from your version of it.
The shore you then find relief in, the shore that lies to you.
keeps you to itself, because otherwise you’ll have your own ocean.

An ocean I’d long for, an ocean of truth,
an ocean in its rarest, rawest form.
an ocean for me, an ocean of me
an ocean of all I can be.

take me there for all I care,
away from chains, chains of the shore.
For that’s where I belong, that’s where I was born,
That little ocean of my mothers womb,
An ocean for me, an ocean of me
An ocean of all I can be.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Who are you?

You asked a question with no answer.
For the first time I saw in you a child.
A child so curious who dips his head
instead of his hand
for taste that needs to be relished
and not meant to be high on.

You didn’t want to take your time to read through me.
I was a book with no preface.
I was meant to be read
on nights most lonely,
days most bright and thunders that kept you in.

I was not to touch and feel the cover and move on.

But what more can I say about people
whose senses are hungrier than their soul.

All I held

I had a way of tearing pages
every time I wrote in love,
of people I once loved.

But You remained,
you had a way of coming back.
Like the impressions on the page after
You had a way of reminding me
what I let go with one hand
and what I clutched tightly behind me in the other.
All I write now looks like the scribbles of an angry child,
A straight line,
a slant,
a curve
and an immensely overlapped circle.