Fears of Falling In Love

The fears of falling in love are many 

I can't Google my signs and symptoms 

Even if I do, I'm sure it'll end up in my demise 

But like a cold, I fear seeing the symptoms 

So when the voice in my head sings about eyes flashing like highway signs in a hotel room, 

all I think about is you looking at me 

And my heart is mine no more 

It is running around like crazy 

In my own chest as if it's his personal racing track

Because I realise the consequences of these subconscious actions 

This has never ended well and I don't know if it ever will 

The uncertainty makes me sick

I still have to pack my bags and go back to dwellings 

I don't have a home anymore 

No place and no one to call home 

I'm quite homeless 

Home is where the heart is 

But it's pinned to wall and it's draining the white from it

Layered with red like a Velvet sponge cake 

the wall stands like your achievements in an unlikely life 

Who would've thought

Ground Zero

And the people that spent all their lives living under the earth
prayed to the ground above them.
They prayed for more worms to fall thorough these gateways
never daring to go up
they told stories form when we used to live up there
destroying the heavens with our best of abilities
but the shame of our crimes has put us in our coffins
we push up daises as offerings to the gods living above us,
hoping they will pluck us along the rest.
there is no going back from where we have reached
we have found a new meaning of life living under the pressure.
bearing fruit of crimes that we didn't commit
we're the children of sinners.
our innocence will wash them clean
another chance to be something better.

Don't Screw UP

Overdose

Do you ever overdose on happiness?
You just feel so empty inside
So you try to fill that emptiness with love
happiness
ambition
purpose
all the positive things you can think about
But do you ever overdose?
Does it ever become too much?
It's so much that you don't feel it anymore
It just doesn't work anymore

The way you take painkillers

You start with a small dosage; the pain goes away for some time,
but it returns later, with vengeance
So you take another dose,
and another
and another
Soon your body's receptors become resistant to these painkillers
So you move onto stronger ones

The same cycle repeats and you keep moving on
Until then is no stronger painkiller

You aren't in pain anymore
but now you're addicted to the euphoria you get from them

It's a curse, because what you love can't be anymore
The painkillers don't work anymore

You overdose and all you feel is
frustration
anguish
anger
your souls being crushed under all this

It's just so sad

The path that they took has dried, but there is still moisture under my eyes

I'm not addicted to painkillers though
My pain is the mistress
Yet she evades me, says that she's "bad for me"
But I chose her,
yet, she refuses me.
So I try moving on, but it doesn't seem so easy.
Evasive behaviour is the worst
Why can't you be honest like nature?
Or is honesty not in your nature?

Let me find peace.

Please.

Party

Cold and sour blood 

of the covenant 

gets spilled on shirts 

as the dance floor hums 

with the feet of 

the people gathered 

for a feast 

Do you feel guilty 

about keeping the dead butterflies 

under the lid? 

Storing the poor lifeless 

for the pleasure of seeing patterns.

You stand aside 

from the crowds rhythmic rituals; 

a beat but no sense of rhythm 

because she sits at home 

looking at the moon 

out of her window, 

reminded of you.

Ear wig

I take comfort in thought
Like an insect
I want to crawl in your ears
Like sweet nothings whispered in the dark as I lay next to you
Making you laugh at my stupid antics
I burrow myself away in your head in memory
I will eat your brain inside out
Like a malicious disease only fit for the worst
But my dear you are quite exquisite and quite so new
Quite a delicacy on the menu
Of crustaceans and fodder
Just to know what you're thinking of
I want to see all of your thought
Like a five p.m. TV show that you watch with glazed eyes
Unmoving, brain dead, much like a vegetable
All my words are wills and wants
But will they ever be true?
Will I ever read your poetry
That you wrote about me in a mid summer fever dream
Am I your object of affection
Or merely a reflection of your needs
You fool that chases after stability, ignore not the itch at night
It's telling you to move your body against the rhythm of the world
To be more than what you were
To look within yourself and to see the shit you've filled up
Where it was supposed to be a treasury
Is a septic tank of curses that you won't break

So tell me, my little bug
Would you take over the world with a rug
Flying on a pole
Calling it "flag of the nation of idiots"
Because that is all we can afford to
The winds will say no to fly the flag
"Far too much dirt" will be a registered complaint by the winds of change
They don't want anything to do with you
Because at the end of the day
It's ashes to ashes

And I'm the pyre bone that sticks out till the end.

Birds

Our hearts are always bumping against the rib cages
trying to break free of the confinement
because they don't belong to us,
the belong to someone else.

The heart wants what it wants,
because it is like a foolish bird,
that wants to rejoin it's kingdom
whose master is the sky.

In its eagerness to freedom,
it forgets about the parasites that live
in the sky; ready to use them,
abuse them, break them and swallow them.

But the foolish bird, like our heart
knows it's nest is waiting,
waiting to be occupied
to fill to empty hole in somebody's chest

My Type

I think might have a type
I never thought I would
But I see a pattern in the girls tht catch my eyes

A well done short bob hair
or thin rimmed glasses
Light hair
Sharp eyes
And the worst is a captivating smile

The best part about this is that
you have no idea who this reminds you of.

But if someone crossed your mind,
while reading those features,
then I must let you know;
You're screwed.

We're in the same boat though
Just like that man in an uncharacteristically bright blue kurta, begging for some money in front of a saree shop.
Who knows
Maybe he has a screw up of his own

We're all just screws, nuts and bolts in this world
That keep getting screwed into the wooden edges of a table

A perfect table
Plane,
Well balanced,
Parallel to the hell beneath us

Heaven is an arch
that doesn't fit in our properly sinsiter world
of line, angle and measurements.
Where nothing can happen without holy curves

Who gives a shit about it all anyways?

Faith

And I'm 6 years old
Begging a god that I've been taught to have faith and believe in
To let my loved ones live forever
I would always say "I don't need anything from you, just keep them safe and happy"
That is all I would ask

I've always seen people begging God for help from something or the other for themselves
But I never asked for help
I always tried to solve my own problems.
Though in the end my parents had to step in when they would notice everything going to shit
Because an 8 year old cannot score well

So I'm crying on the edge of my bedsheets
Realising that people around me are dying
At the rate where even they don't know if they will live to see another day
And it hurts me that they don't want to miss anything out of my life
For I have survived and lived for so long

But all of this makes me think if it was worth it.

The Saint

The saint of my dilated pupils

Sits in the ever contracting cave of darkness

And worships the dim lighting above the sink

Smoke alarms don’t bother the slumber sum pupils in their rooms

Climbing floor after floor

Screaming and thumping dorms

Walking up and skittering down

Like the dots on the mirror that I stare into, at 2 a.m

Trying to find something new

Maybe a wrinkle or another white hair

And I’m barely 19.

The leaks from the pipes pool at my feet

And I’m like a little frog in monsoon

Breathing through my skin in the shower

And counting beauty marks on my body

As if I am a spotted cheetah.

My roommate tells me to sleep the smoke off

But the contents of my mug

Cause the saint to escape from my eyes

And all I am left with are

Dark caves instead of eyes.

A wait

The hallways will echo
with the sounds of your butterfly wings
as you scutter past slumber full rooms
the glitter will run down your legs
and you will watch it flow into the drain
as parts of you will break themselves down
and fit perfectly in the small box.

The worms may have conquered the sky
but the soil is still yours for taking
in this world themed with all these colours
your fair palms will stand out
twirling in the air like ribbons.
I will watch them turn into fits
rising above everyone's head
holding a crushed flower
that you say has died along with your soul.

Spring will be here soon.

Sight

Why are people with glasses considered smart?
I suppose it's because they choose to see the world as it really is
Some people just accept that their blurred vision is, well, just how it is
while the ones with glasses at some point realised
'hey, that's not right!' and decided to change their views
SO
everytime they put their glasses on, they make an effort,
to see the world as it really is
that is the passion i see in some

but there is a passion I like to feel;
people always think love is this happy feeling,
which it is, I'm not saying they're wrong
but what I'm trying to express here is that sometimes it is accompanied by a lot of confusion;
confusion that hurts,
confusion that makes you feel that you are in the midst of a creamy midst that seems to stick to you at every turn you take, every flick of your arm, every move you make.
You can't blow it away, you can only waddle your way through it, like a swamp filled with flowers
but you stay to look at each flower and keep it safe in a memory.
When you finally ascend, you're covered in it.

the euphoria never lasts forever
it knows better than to give you hope,
but it made a mistake to ever set foot inside your threshold because you have no limits
you will  chase after her no matter how far she runs
she is your candlestick in this grey world where nothing matters to you except what's in front
because of your quantum conscience
you love her too much

But without love, somethings would not have clarity

for her.

I used to love mornings
The misty air, sun filtering through the fog,
the world reviving itself, part by part
It meant the beginning of a whole new day
A new page in my life for a possibly new chapter

But I dislike them now
I would like to register a complaint about the unexpected

a three nights and two day stay with your soul
like a hotel in my home has left me begging for more
more of you
more of your eyes in the morning under the flying drapes
more of your smile in my arms on the sofa bed
more of your legs intertwined with mine under the table set
more of your hands pulling my hair and pushing me into you

more of you
and nothing more

I miss the sleepless continuity of our days where the nights melded into days and we would just watch the white walls change colours from black to dark to grey and sunlight would make itself known again at a time it was conventional for human beings to awake
but for our stay we were just souls
not beings
just souls being

my arms will ache for you as if a ghost limb begging to be rejoined
 to be restored it to its former glory

Tight Grip

Some people believe that your life
is dependent on that simple curve of your palm
defined by the numerous strokes of fate
residing in your stretched hands
residing in the grip you had as a child
in your mother's womb
but right now my life depends on your hands

I wish i had more lazy afternoons
to blindly memorise the lines on your hand
because then i'd know my fate as well
because it is intertwined with yours

Some people judge you on your grip of a handshake
firm and confident, lousy and scared or indifferent and common
But how confidently it resides near my waist
as you guide me around a hall of strangers
that seem to know an adjacent pair of eyes so well

How gently it strokes my neck as we lay in bed empty of the day
like the bottles on the floor with shoes stuffed with socks

Some people don't have a hold on their reality
not realising how far gone they are
until there seems nothing left to hold on to
like free falling from a cliff into an ocean
instead the fear grips you and all you can feel
is the wind blowing in the wrong direction

But the grip I have on your hands right now is all i can focus on
as the rains beats against the window telling me to let you leave
the way your handprints will leave the blankets next morning

Tear my eyes away from the door frame through which i hope you would come back
I tread back to the bed in the corner of the room
shutting windows and drawing curtains to feel secure
and the only grip i have right now is on the blanket above my head








"How do we keep this this?
How do we keep this bliss?"
~Troye Sivan 

My Kind

They say that even a broken clock is right twice a day
But they never told you about the stuck clock.
The minutes keep moving but the hours don't pass.
There doesn't seem to be a way to make time move faster.
When you watch the sand run out of time,
you realise how much you're loosing
but you can never seem to hurry it up
It takes it's time in falling down
like a child on a swirly slide
We're the only ones in a rush
running, speeding, tripping, crawling
The clock will take its time to be right
Not like a meal to be served twice a day
This stuck clock is the one that moves on it;s own time
Stuck, never wanting to be right
you can try to fix it but it will always
find a way to stop and mess up 

Kid in a car

'Write a poem on poverty'

But who am I to tell the tales of the dark lives of the labourers
All I do is sit in the car,
Still as a predator, meditating for its prey
I can hear the mosquito's orchestra out in the street.
Momentary high beams of cars passing by,
And these people are caught like dear in headlights.
But I am a prey, hiding from my predator; the eyes of these labourers that haunt me
Their dark eyes, hair untamed and shingled off,
tendons showing at every joint
Fathers comfort in the alcohol and gutka
The mothers sit by a tea stall, fanning their babies on hot summer evenings, as the day's shift ends and the men come back, to their dens of darkness,
made of bricks and cement, yet so temporary.

Who am I to tell these figments of their lives?

I'm just a kid sitting in a car.

Annual Rent

It will be July again 

and my Christmas decorations 

will still be up because I hope 

that they will lead you back home.

But where is home?

What do you consider me as?

Am I  home for you?

What am I?

Who am I?

I don't know actually

Currently though 

all I feel like 

is a pile of bones

with flesh laid over 

like a soft comforter

too tired to move

But I want to be more.

I want to be a spark 

that something that changes your mind

a muse

a penny for your thoughts

Quid Pro Quo to your heart

But hearts aren't meant to be rent out as favours.

Though the spaces in them is given out 

You're one of the tenants

Adamant not to move out

And I don't have the heart to kick you out

Someday it'll be time for you to pay up

Rent including the security taxes 

For keeping you in my heart is a battle

which I wish I would've lost a long time ago

Topsy Turvy

Look into my eyes
How long can you stare at me?
Can you take it all?
Keep looking
and you might start to see
someone else's face

Who do I look like?

You can't recognise who you see in there so you're too afraid to look

Yet

You've been trying to take me
piece by piece
but I'm ready
to give you all of me
at once
the only question is
if you can take it.

Try looking way from the emphasis,
the power,
the truth,
Can you take it?

I'm ready to follow you anywhere
but how far would you go?
Spill your thoughts
And I will collect them
like jelly beans in a jar
pennies in a green piggy bank,
stools stacked over one another.

It's a kids room.
Your room,
Your heart.
It's nothing but a small hoard of memories where live - your shadows, your bookshelf next to lamps, lighters, candies, blades and lightning in bottles.
You've always been too afraid to open them
You're afraid of the fire
Afraid that it might consume you
You're afraid of the shadows
Afraid that they might swallow you
like a dark dive in the ocean
You're afraid of the blades,
Which trod across your seemingly easier paths
Afraid you might take the old route.

Little paintings hang in corners.
But all you paint
is just a dark room with a few stars.
You paint the same starry sky
Every night
Never changing even when it dawns,
on you that time is running out.
All you seem to do is wait.

What are you waiting for?

Ruined

Soiled socks and broken egg shells
Sunday mornings with wet newspapers
Puncture tires before the rush and
Always forgetting your toothbrush

Spoiled paint and winter rain
Cold winds and sun rays
Blue socks and no pants
Red hoodies and sun tans

Messy hair lying in a chair
Lazy cat around the legs
Bunched up jeans
muddy prints
Giving sight to pristine shins

Newspapers left out in the storm
Wipers broken leaving water un drawn
Balled up tissues after a flu
And earplugs, where one works out of two

Shoe prints and snow prints and pieces of glitter

Torn pages and books and unfinished letters
Words said too soon, too late or never
Being there at the right time, late or early
Thinking too much, impulsive strikes or nothing really
These actions, these choices and these ripped seams

These are things that seem most spoilt to me.

These are the memories ruined for me

Rain

Rain has always been my favourite weather
The thunder,
like my father;
loud and ground shaking.
The lightning,
like my mother;
quick and bright.
Always together,
a step ahead of another.
And I,
rising from the raindrops
collecting in puddles,
their love child,
follows them around.

To some he sounds like war and weary things.
To some she looks scary and scared things.
Together they seem so destructive and I,
was what lay in their path.
Never has anyone seen something,
so destructively preserved,
in a cocoon of hailstones,
away from the world.

Rain also reminds me of my first love,
how we shared a small intimacy in the slight drizzle of rain.
The memory where I knew tranquility and alas it was in the middle of a thunderstorm.
Rain is what I was born in,
to bring a clear sky.
Rain is what I sleep in,
under my starless night.
It soothed me,
when everything was a storm inside.
It cradled me in its muddy arms.
Brushed my hair with gentle winds,
leaving wet kisses on my cheeks.
It taught me how to dance,
without anyone watching.

It taught me that it's okay to get wet once in a while, to slip, to mess up, to nurture, to love, to give, to show your try nature without hesitation. 

It gave me, so many memories.

Bah Humbug

"I wanna see what you're willing to loose"

Humans are such stupid simple animals. We all fall in love under that same sky. The one that has changed colours for us since the beginning. We put it down to refraction of light and the wind currents how the sky turns orange and the clouds come together to paint our shared ceiling. The same painting under which a thousand people fall in love at the same time.

Some of us try to become less of us because we think that the we are loosing the everpresence of our fundamental ingredient and it works for some time. But our painted ceiling always brings us together in the most hypocritical ways because when the same sky darkens we run for shelter and find a new ceiling. We're divided and we think we're better off like that. In smaller groups, like a bacteria in it's cyst, we infect the earth with our greed.

We have learnt to displace the balance of the nature for our momentary gain of power and to ignore the consequences of our actions. We are greedy for the ocean's soul to be filled in tanks in the back of our cars, just so the we can move through time more slowly.

Time gained here, life lost there.

Some of us seem to come together and resonate, proving that our atoms have a wavelength which matches. This wavelength represents our energy, which changes. People change. Some people don't always resonate. There are very few people who are able to resonate. I've never had proof that it would last forever. But I believe it to be as distinct as the screeching of tires on the asphalt, that some of us have resonated since the beginning. Since the sky learned to change colours.

Many have spent their lives breathing and not living, surviving but not feeling alive. All of this is for naught in the end, but questions have chants and answers have rants that turn to debate and all we fear is fear itself so really, we are just simply dumb creatures.

In The Way

"When you start to look at me, our physical fatality"
~ Heaven In Hiding By Halsey

Ever searched for the garden of Eden in someone's eyes?

Or the way they laugh at your jokes?

In The Way they say your name and can't help but smile because they find it unique?

In The Way that smile pulls on their face when they see you waiting for them with a coffee in your hand for an 8 a.m. class?

In The Way they tell their mother about you?

In The Way they double over clutching you for support as you finish your parents dance routine?

In The Way their eyes close when you reach to pick an eyelash off their cheek and you ask them to make a wish even though you had stopped believing in them years ago?

Do you still look for the Garden of Eden when they can't take their eyes off of you because "you have this badass rocker vibe, leaning on your car with sunglasses on"?

When they tell you that you remind them of their favourite song?

When they bring you a flower from the garden they were sitting in because they thought it was beautiful and it reminded you of them?

When you hear them talking about how they want to bring a change in the world?

But there are times you wished you never did

New Year, New Me

New year, New Me is a chant that everyone sings
though some birds have stopped chirping, rather some cannot.
Still we believe that nothing changes
and the air will still blow
through the trees or the vents
and the birds will sing in harmony or in war
the blind will see the light of the day
New Year, New Me

Whenever you mess up, just start again;
mess up at 8? start again at 8:30
take a break and fall in pace with your heartbeat
don't wait for the new day, year or week

Breathing to live or to calm yourself down
following the rules to stay safe and sound
laughing in places you dare not be
changing your shades to colours you'be never seen 

New Year, New Me is a chant that everyone sings
and so praises and promises erases the past
moving on, problem free,
To something that would never last.











is that what you want...?