Band-aid
I have wrapped a band-aid all over my body, Coz it hurts everywhere, But I don’t heal like people often do. I carry my pain like a parched woman Carrying a pot of water Miles for her children In a deserted land. I don’t know
Beautiful Things
Is that you? Or just your wish, I can’t see past the thick layer of dust Behind which you stay hidden, Don’t you love yourself? Coz I do, Like every painting of my impeccable creator, You have been gently brushed with the finest skins And
Somewhere Else – Third Prize in Nottingham Film Festival
This one is very special to me. One of my poems was so beautifully recited by Amelia Catherine Uncles that I decided to create a short sketch out of it. Her voice felt so right that I kept envisioning a man trying to find himself in
I am Paper
Printed stories on my body, I know I become something When I am read, I erupt in words And read someone else’s misery. I stink, But ask a lover How to smell, They leaf through me To find secrets from their hell. Few know I too
Anything and Everything
I wish my life could be as erratic as Charles Bukowski changed jobs in Factotum. To be able to quit apathy as it gnaws upon my soul. How magnificent life would be then! To be able to do anything, absolutely anything just for the heck
Burning Up
I am seething, Flaming in this impossible heat, Thinking what did I do to deserve this, What loathsome act did I commit To seal such a painful fate? Or was it just a matter of choice That plucked out known faces, Impelled me towards cold
Afterlife
Woke up one day To find me dead; It didn’t make a difference. I climbed out my bed, And walked a mile To find no one, But were they ever there? Not a soul lurked, Not a car stirred, The traffic of dopey minds Was
Playthings
Where does all my verve go When I am already on a journey? Why does it not carry in me? The zeal to be riding a new horse, All along the bumps and humps Thrown my way; That’s how every life has been paved. Why
People Are Crowd
Walking in, Walking out Of their wretched lives, People are crowd Who don’t stand out; They hum the same song, And shoehorn all along, Till they feel safe amongst each other, And don’t bother About anyone’s radar, Not even for a man, Who sits quietly
Discontent
Ain’t afraid now Of challenges on my road, I pick them like I pick fallen berries in the woods, Or people who have lost interest In their every day, For it all sounds the same, The quiet makes them sleepy And they think now, Maybe