Rent me a place in your childhood,I wish to witness your lifeTake form as you growOld as you are now,And I want to hold you tightAfter every little fightYou had with lifeTrying to figure outWhy some things never panned outWhen they worked out in your
Sometimes I am scared of what I might become. What if I forget my modus operandi. Can an artist forget his trait? I started off to be a writer, now an array of vocations caper about on my dashboard. The inclination towards direction affects my
Power is control –A shard of mythThat you think you own,But you are a marionetteDangling at fate’s behest.You think you moved?You are pushed.You think you are quiet?You have been silenced.Think you have spoken?You have been forced to scream –A painful bellow,You have been marked yellowFor
When the dawn came,And the sun blamed,He plodded through the hallway lonelyDragging his weight toward the gateThat opened to his garden slowly. Jumped in joy,To find the coyThat patiently awaited his eyes –Spring had comeAnd the birds had sungA song he had wanted to try.
Some pieces evoke a deep sense of pathos, this is one of them. Every time I listen to it, every time I watch its beautifully crafted video, I can’t stop myself from reflecting over it for hours. This is what I ended up commenting on
I have often pondered over this existential question one too many times – Should we be completely honest with people? Should we really tell them what we think about them? Can we really call a potato a potato? A spade a spade? Then I am
All my life you had me believe,I had a condition – You can’t do this,You can’t do that.You can’t be him,You can’t be you.Must walk straight,You can’t run wild,Don’t stand there!Why do you slouch?You don’t know things,Should’ve known by now.You can’t keep up,You are way
I write,So I don’t forget,I write,So I don’t have to remember,For I have these pagesHolding the present,The past and the future.These bits and piecesThat go missing in an ocean of words.A ripple that I don’t cause,A whirlpool that takes it all –It dissolves like salt
Every morningSun breaks into my window,Lighting up all the dark cornersOf my room,Showing me hope,Smiling,Wearing the brightest light,And I caress it gentlyTo relish its taste,Looking right at it,Disarming it with impaling eyes,Seeing through it,Like I know how to read books,Let alone read people.I catch a
Ready to cut inAn empty mindThat tries to rest in peace,There always is a daily grindThat keeps you on your knees. But when you like your chore,You can’t get bored,You are working all the time,You are waddling throughEvery list you made,As they squabble and unwind.