Words and Emotions

We are kind to each other

between words and emotions

Words emotions always loose

I lock the door of bathroom

for few minutes of silence

to recollect what words tried to take away

and emotions offered

that is a chance to words

Re-painting multiple blurs

of a phrase

I reconvene to sorrow, then to kindness again

chasing the knobs I find

no safety in life,

mouths and doors

give or take

I have to doubt myself for truth to start killing me again

till then I take the chance

and open the door

to walk into the room

thinking

I am free

from my own mind.

Cat and a story

yet again-
i never understood how a cat scratches its way up the tree
whats in those nails that i lack
an expectation
and the reason i had carried it
as myself
or to live wrong in a story
every bark i had fallen from
was seemingly a grounded tree
heights viewing me
steeping me back from as far as i climb
time spending itself
natures pulling its way
to slide me down
this i can do
fall off deep
and not mourn the cat
from the young to old
how obvious can the message be
parked and moving
in a journey to nowhere.

Life of I’

Yesterday i watched “life of Pi” again and felt like to be a non believer would be such a hard working life. (those who haven’t seen it, please watch). Even the things i cannot control i have to take responsibility thinking that it is necessary so as to control my output in life i meant.

Although mechanical sometimes but it does come to what i have learnt and am i putting my own emotions back to practise. We get lazy when the bad times pass by, our own association only becomes limited to the sadness we may feel in that split sec nostalgia, that is i think because the reasons we have to put as to why something happened are limiting. I am seeing the life just as if it had no meaning to it, but still its there to be done felt dealt and loved maximum to.

Why should anything mean anything, but once i know myself, it is also important to give our own meaning and then flow with everything nevertheless
.
.
.

It may seem like you would die but you wouldn’t

the brain of heart may seem like a physicality but it isn’t

lungs have more of a mind of their own

choking on bad air is knowing

memory knows history but

to blow away into the proportion of opposite

I believe I should believe this too

being wrong is a dimension of its own

and believing you are, is another

what should I leave to get what

matters on what I leave when I get what I want

I am good then leave behind cramps in body of dead

or take their misery with me

why to hold what should flow

so live life

but do go deep deep deep into the soil of deepest oceans

and kill yourself

that is how you will find

that nothing beats as much as roots that float

with darkened hardened seasoned bits of soul

You can now take a fall

but take with you a foreword for life

Whatever you do

don’t live a insipid life knowing nothing of anything

or an ignorant one knowing everything of nothing.

Camphor Ball

June July August and now September.

Three months and no posts. I have been learning magic for this while. Well anyways this post is about the world and our default learned behaviour that never wants us to know that we are all we need. What is simple always doesn’t become the obvious answer, why ? Because we are the complication. We unnerve everything around us and ourselves as well because simplicity always begets contempt in how easily it’s available, there are no forms to anything but many, limited by our visibility. It is the visibility that manifests itself in our future and present, in what we create recreate or destroy. Everything we see, everyone we meet keeps triggering our defaults and we can’t change the pattern because we either do the same thing or the opposite when we are afraid of old results. How we can resolve this to follow our conviction with simplification of thoughts. In such thoughts I feel like I am absorbing the universe and maybe we all are always doing the same just unaware of it. Cheers to those who understood 👆

Camphor ball

Reduced by whiff of trust lethargy of hope should not take me over
or else
how to see the monotony of vigour?
where facts derive me out from sweat of procrastination and take future out my hands before
where
I had dwelled deep and dug all the corpses of brain but couldn’t touch the past
as if
I didn’t exist there and memory just absorbed what it found in the transcendence of mind
an lon an anion
kept what it felt in the friction
a negated packet
a hyped paradigm
a dusted love
absorbs me and expends me
I absorb the world in return and expand me per breath
juvenile
sedated
alive
learning
traveling in my own brain

a camphor ball.

The revered God of odds

I don’t know why I keep coming back and reading this one, maybe because it makes me feel both oblivious and related to the pains of past. 🙂

inapoem

This is a call to create me because I don’t exist

and seeing my life I think I may be the one

who walks past the dreams and desires

skillfully in a bliss remembering the odds on how these existed without the pain

but then I am proved right soon

leading me to think I created them

but if history of people would talk they would have the same walk

still I am blamed not to live through it with patience

and patience they say some don’t realise they already have it as a character

while those who don’t are often seen demanding it

I am familiar with this cycle

but I am in the odd

with about everything

and the slipping society

who will soon think of me

as a non conformist

and while they don’t know what they are conforming to

I have to mix in a haste

View original post 59 more words

Unrequited Love

So many of us make it a task to not fail, but at all wrong places and for all wrong reasons, reasons that we may not even recognise, reasons that are so deeply rooted that we have no idea what we are doing thinking it is love or the person we want is the only one for us. STOP. PAUSE. Love again if you want but STOP with that person. It is almost an obsession which doesn’t bring any output. This poem captures the essence of that feeling when your love is not being recognised or respected.

I cannot turn me
anymore,
without turning to you.
you know
how far you go,
In a distance that time breaks
turning my darkness
to grey,
you are my light.

But I can only burn me,
all the while
pretending,
that it is alright.

A day is but a day,
that must become night,
whether it wills it,
Or not
and the sun must burn
the lotuses must wake,
And among it all,
unassumingly,
The earth,
each moment will have to take a call
and love unrequited,
doesn’t have to endure it all..

Old with time for youth..

Hi Everyone.

I am not verbose on the blog and I just post poems when I feel like sharing. This time it has been long since I last posted but now getting back to it. Just felt like writing this note to tell how in the last year where I have gone through thousands of storms this blog, the sharing and your comments have time and again come to my rescue. I just want to wish everyone peace in whatever they are dealing with and that we should keep expressing. Our souls have no barriers and I am thankful for the internet 🙂

This poem stemmed from a thought while just walking on the street. I saw group of old people and myself and just was trying to think what an old person would worry about and what they would be thinking about the choices they may make about people or things they may have wanted in there life. The process of growing up is happening so subtly but so directly that we think it’s pain or yearning or achievement or failures, while so much is happening we still think that we are left behind and are in such hurry to live that we don’t recognise that living is not in age or achievements but it is always a direct result of our own thoughts and the actions we take to satisfy those thoughts..just that..

Most people kill to die
some would die but not kill
some talk
some spill
How to gift a rose without cutting its stem?
maybe
by gifting a plant
but there are hassles in growing up
Who would want?
The old walk
toe to toe
hand in motion
just as doctor said
no curiosity
we are all one less then the allowed chance
but age helps
bills and hearts
everything bulging was taken care of
no refuge left to take
love career body parts
everything is now together
no matter how much it were apart
But there is still time left for me
I have this youth
and years for free
Though there is nothing left unsaid
pain memory love hope regret
but still I have to churn out more
I am not settled
that’s the lore
come wish me luck
people say
I will have to live a little more.

Water & Roots

Smooth and clogged
thousands of me
meet and become my roots
these stems outgrow me
and towards those billions of light
but I don’t reach the sun the moon the tavern of the hut across the river
I can’t swim
I grow
but to float
waters of woo and lights of heaven
grounds fasten in changing tides
I have a life
I have a fear
I have a hope
I have a tear
I know everything I can reach
I have roots
I wish to keep.

a infinite task

I zero one down to
two and then to
three and four..
create infinity.
speechless, with infinite sounds
I utter nobody’s
the basic fundamentals
find and kill rudimentary emotions
so that judging cowards can cry peace
they like each other
and break me free
on the leash.
the river flows of my destiny
going forwards
it takes me back
I seek I keep I repeat
the uncounted unuttered inexistent numbs
count me
and I count it to thee.
then I say four three two one..
it’s fatal to try and
reverse infinity.

Relationships

IMG_6653

It is a dirty case of cleaned glasses
aged with the eyes which saw through
to see dust sitting on the window
where crows were cawing until the flesh loosens
and legs spread
we come down to heights
philosophy lost to the likes
surrendering to monotony of mutual rights.

the air comes between us and space
when we recreate ourselves
and our rusty past
it shakes the distance
we covered to last
we create from sun and feed it to moon
our dreams to our youth
once more lot of ground to cover
lot to ignore
glassened hardened fastened
our eyes to our shattered core.

Mirror Meditates

Through the broken glass of a shaken house
paradigms shift to let in the light
when and how much
too hard to decide

reflecting in the angle it was set in
traversing the light
shining on things as they were thrown
Mirror Meditates
to change angles.

shadowed on
horizons of reflection
it’s a straight image
hiding the streets
vision fails to intrude.

I sit and call for purpose in pain
confidence in vain
and wisdom in shame
light strives to direct reflection
I get back
whatever I ask for
it doesn’t go sideways
there are few things I would rather not say
it’s my own mirror
it ignores my ways.

changes in surface
go on to imbibe
Convex
Concave
what kind of darkness it is
I have to decide
under spell of my own ways
expand out
look inside
I change my mirror
Cant change my sight.

Common Single Disease

I kill the cradle
and ancestors of the wild being in me
call me to end an era
of everything
with wilderness humanity will go
without desire the senses
with numbers the age
without sound your name
with death the pain
the dents of history will call for
another life to suffer
I will again rush to offer
another death in another life
another wisdom in another knife
another love in another life
wheel reinvents itself
and history is new
past kills itself
in between the time gasps
present perfect is continuous till
infinity dies again to be renewed.
———————————
You are my infinity
will you die early or slow?
rotting or in a blow?
will you kill me before slowing down?
or slow down to kill?
———————————
And then when your cradle kills me
my ancestors will call
the numerous me
and the numerous them
we will kill the misery of repeating history
mellow ourselves down
leaves will hustle
we will ignore the infinity in us
and will die in peace
cured in death of
a common single disease.

Body.

I always feel
I always go numb
on how these men
see my parts apart

the bulging breasts
the luscious thighs
the arse high

and then I bathe
unimportantly
alone
my body is not conscious
no eyes that roam

top to bottom
bottom to top
bosom to hips
vagina to lips
men know what they want
the body feels their hunger on

parts of it don’t feel home
eyes roam
dissect me part by part
I breathe in
breathe out
breathe in
breathe out
life bursts
and all goes down

bubbles of my body
and graves of men
death asks me to tell them apart
who to choose
who to spare
as if skeletons care.

FLOWERS & RINGS & LOVE

I know people
and they tell
they know me
this time it will be different
my grave will not be lonely
they will bring me
flowers and love
decide if I am rotten enough
kiss me or bid me luck.

I will know soon if
a new message I will have to inscribe
one more grave then
to kill and hide
there is blood on my lips
and dirt on the hands
again the silent trance
and hunger pangs
punch me
to vomit it all out
I have again eaten
my insides out.

Each time I dig a new grave
and fill new crowd
bodies on bodies
crying out loud
warned to lie still
sometimes they wriggle
trying to climb uphill
they hold my spine tight
and try to break me
to be their light
and I gasp for air
to loose this sight
their versions I keep
but I let them slide
every new man
pulls me down
questions ways of my heart
on me he frowns.

And You
I have seen you before
when gardens were lush green
you were like a purpose
that has dreams
while I try to see you differently
you come using the same means
you don’t know how you bring
the same scenes
of us
drinking the blood
being both hungry
and half filled
the continuously rekindling love
in unkindled will
I cannot help but still hear
in this closeness
the echo of dead screams
going in same vicious circles
of flowers and rings.

When It’s ❤️

I apologise for being different,
or all the more same,
he calls me something,
I have to respond,
when in love, that’s my name,

sirens chant the same,
Mersmerized,
play the game,
of being known,
honey, dear, a dame,

sweet pains,
a dove kills a dove, such games,
red always feels alive,
I think cocks fight the real fight,
I relate to their plight,

when sky is clouded,
mind lovely and talks with haste,
dying to be free,
again freedom lovingly put at stake,
those who have been tied know it well,
what it takes,
in matters of heart,
to save the dove,
and also to kill
to not turn into a dove at will,

still when he calls,
I turn to play the game,
become his honey, his dear, his dame,
he says I love you,
I say, Yes here is the cane!
If it’s love the history is same.

While on a trek…

And if I could learn from nature
I would see how everything has roots
and traces that run deep
just like our souls
which sees through
past of our sown seeds
while universe bring future
each second
we worry of present
which as ephemeral as air
that flows past me
moving me for a second
not so beyond
I make it minutes
and convert to hours
revisit glory and pain
nature doesn’t pretend
on moments that have passed
nor does it intensify, glorify or dwell
it just stares in my face
while I pass away
in this world
in a whiff
like a scent
people come and go
and I walk on these treks
wondering
if I can be this peaceful
knowing all
seeing all
aware of all the noise
but still at poise.

I Love Me

I have stopped breaking from the outside
it just causes cracks
shifts happen in the core
and plateaus change
the geography
without anyone knowing
people live happily ever after
and say
that it was meant to be.

My words fumble
when I swallow you in bits
so I gulp you down
give tests, repeat
You ask for 3 words
I say “I am here”
few words have rigid belief
you want complex but
I am forever your simple relief.

I want to bring you the stars
such is my love
but no one wants what they can’t taste
I am bland in my face
and they choose irony
the wisdom of haste
we are but all
the product of our mediocre stakes.

For themselves
they ask myself to define me
how else would they say
that more than you
I love me.

Deep cuts

How deep do you cut without bleeding
and I will call it art
your crimson feathers and stark lurking breath match
the width of blade
which you promised last time you
wont use

what is it you inflict on me for the pain to pass
a whiplash
or the same sweet dread
after red gives you away
and crimson scars turn you beautiful again

My blade
I protect you

and when you convince me of your cowardice
I know you pretend
to be brave
for these nutshells of mines
that you spread across
are just my pilgrims to your sacred heart
so I will reach your shrine to wake you up
and for that moment
that will be the first
and last thing I do for you
and turn to dust
that is all I can take
to make you brave
I can become a scar
the best one for your heart
and you can wear me
pretend like its art.

Walking with Volcanoes

You sit there
humbled
carved
silent
unassociated
like it doesn’t matter
how the ash settled
like you never were burned
under the blossom
there was never a desert
silence speaks
of the things never said
when mountains get tired
people still climb
where do you hide
to stay put
in plain sight
you sit
you belong
where do you walk
how do you go
with that weight
so light
gravitational to the air
the last time you exploded
you kept it all inside
is that how volcanoes die?
and settle to grounds
or they just walk with it
never again to be found

of all the things mountains loose
innocence bothers me the most
people dying to see people
all we find are ghosts.

Let Me Write.

I have to compose something quickly
before hell breaks loose
and urgency of my heavens touch the incarcerated souls
to not burn them again
I have to write
the reminders in time
and adjust the velocity of feelings
each time to a faster pace
and further the gaze
so that the character adjusts the amount of futile references it can make
so as to not smother them and itself
I have to make space
and compose quickly but still not in haste
the metamorphosis renders my incapable past, I suggest myself to last
with the wisdom of gaze that I inculcate
I have to write
so as to not forget
these fillers of past
and metamorphosis of haste
I have to write
the moments of truth
willingness of heart
through my – this ignorant art
to see how my words taste
in your mouth like
the countless things you say
I have to write
allow me if I may.

Real-lies-sation

severe cold of the shutting lungs

scoff for the warm ice cream

mellowing the combustion of cold

shields stay up. lungs fight

of the momentary disguise

in which the cold plays

the warmth of haste 

and sends chills

of the developing taste 

sniffs are the signals

when I go around 

I think I am changing 

but I just change the crowd. 

The Drift.

and she looked at me
in the way I wanted it to be
but it was late
and, I, had places to be
could it fall so fast?
that, which was meant to last
could it be more clear?
my, this face, with your smear
you had said
that it was meant to be
and I said you knew my name
but, then, when you called
I didn’t respond
because it was late
we called it fate
but, what was all that
before all this
when we had time
to sit, define
then again
you had looked at me
in a way it wasn’t meant to be
and when it was not late
we still called it fate

whenever, the tides turned
they never favored
how we moved
and, we always looked backwards
to this drift
from the start
just why had you said
that it was meant to last.

Consonance

Because people give up by now,
wiping off the mopped floor, squeaky clean,
marble white,
I reflect.
Painted the windows white, walls red,
no bloody stains here.

Furniture is white,
dining table round and of pine,
this is where I dine,

they say 1 day at a time.

Because people give up by now,
cleaning brownish-blackish gunk on the stove,
over flown, forgotten, I scrub, clean it bright,
I cook,
I surprise.

Because people give up by now,
killing, poisoning, stumping on other roaches.
In corners quietly they repair who pretended to die,
I put my makeup,
got few more lives to live.

A rusty old watch I clean, memories creep,
speak, have you forgotten me, I am low.
This time I don’t pack it back.
I let it hang, in my sight, with a lighter mind,

they say 1 step at a time.

Because people give up by now,
pretending to be cursed,
pretend what you may.
In plain sight, I have let it go.
They are they and I am me.

1 day at a time,
1 step at a time,
1 life at a time.
Because, most people give up by now.

Black Box

I was looking at you through the black box

thought that was all everyone ever wanted

                     to not be related to their own hands

infinity, then an undone task 

of 1000 possible futures 

relates me to the nonexistent you

and I look at you through the black box 

and my shining eyes 

reflect all white

like when lies

work around for long

feel like they belong

                      and in the potholes cultures cursed 

the saint 

who did not listen

and didn’t let a scum die

there were still a few things 

left 

for both to try. 

Edge

What would you sit there and wonder

let me tell you

love fear hate derision pretense 

all were true

it was best to not wonder more

so we did not

but if you sit and I cross your mind

know you cross me too

now when we swim across 

to more oceans 

and different lands

if you find me in another 

find me then for her 

and you will find me for me

I will till then try to loose you

and un-clinch my fingers

grappling your version with me

hoping that you find 

the same unsettling love

which settled in me

and then maybe you will see everything left behind 

was same and more

but now lost 

on the edge of our past. 

The melancholy of wisdom

I caress her in the dark

as touch magnifies my presence

she lays peaceful

reaching ignorance of her heart

that doesn’t absorb the light when made aware

wisdom is not so absolute

as the ignorance complete in itself

this melancholy of opposites biases to 

everything which knowledge can’t impart

wisemen solving riddles that didn’t exist in the dark

and in a light way 

she goes along the not so wise path

bearing the weight of knowing 

that wisdom is only as reasonable as all thoughts combined

but not wise enough

to create things that unreasonability could define. 

500 likes?

500 likes on WordPress today for this blog. I look at the popup and it satisfies that 500 times my writings were noticed by the wonderful people here.

Thank you friends for feeling – for me, for yourself, for everyone.  You keep things alive around you and I am honored to be in one such space. Its ecstatic when someone can take home a share of my world and I can take home theirs without disturbing it and I think that is enough for a day each day.

What you are thinking today and tomorrow and there after…I am waiting, listening, reading 🙂

A Hymn

transfixed by the moon
in the finished glare
come.            stare.

do you know what it is?
pain engulfed in love

free. incorrigible. beyond repair.

My solitude in the gloom
where your single flower bloomed
the inane incantations
always worked to incapacitate

my moth,
that never did recuperate

             how did he swallow himself?

he poured the tea
while uncurling her hair

with verity on the verge
but never gone
the idolatry pretense
got carried on

and she kept choking
in his fresh blood
scoffing,
the moth
kept the light stuck

brightness is a scanty measure
for the dark
like when a sanguine offers
a sardonic heart

both sit to satiate the salvage
the burning light
that sought solace
and the carnal moth,
a caustic case.

V for venom

Do you know you can drink your tears backwards into your mouth through practice 

you can cry inside but I never got to know how long it takes to go back and unfix the fixes of haste in my 

mind talks of the adjustments it did not make while I thought it did, when the blood spilled 

it gave away the heart which I thought won in the middle of everything, it failed

to show me that it could never repair its storage of those backward tears, it gulped

the blood instead and now can’t vomit because    spilling words was an old habit, now fixed, hindering

the outward flow of almost any emotion in an effort to keep those tears from flowing forward, 

walking in circles of pain and love the boundaries merged and neither could identify the other admist its own venom 

the cobra bit itself it died not being sure if the venom killed it or not loving itself. 

Skip a heartbeat

My heart skips a beat..

Thomp. and everything goes down again

as in the second’s distress to move

forward on the clock it pushes itself back

and I rush to pump it again with all I got

it becomes a matter of minutes to level

the things put to rest

from where hours turned to dust

of days spent in hunger

for the skipped heartbeats

where heartbeats skipped people

by skipping a few hearts.

 

 

 

Dear Friend

My friend,
let me find you again,
in the broken links of your wired past.
we all were sinking in that age of glory,
and it’s ok if all your pieces didn’t last.
it is the 30’s now,
you know what you shouldn’t do,
let me just take back the fears from you,
don’t be whole – preserve yourself,
but let the sceptiscm of those first mistakes pass,
keep the lessons,
but don’t let the punishments last,
let me find you again in the familiarities of our masks,
let me look at you,
via your heart,
past through the troubles of this world,
where you learned to keep faces as an art.

Reminiscence

A sweet story 

travels its own reminiscence 

as how it was told 

in times of plenty 

when the dwelling pond didn’t dry up 

in the times passed filling it again

the little creatures of all forms

lived in the suspense 

of failure or success

thomping on weak ones

burying them through distress

for urgency to be whole

that was why the story 

was not sweet when retold

a lot of sweet bits 

in its reminiscence

did not hold. 

Meme evenings

neural efficacy it dictates

carving replicating transcending 

subatomic space of the peripherals where

it was killed, alive again 

dusted by hands of now a celibate brain

niching into the broken links

of surviving neurons 

to expose hide reside in a scarred alley

trying to invade again 

breaking open the bubbled spaces

you. yet again a meme of everything perfect

I. an uninspired host

Valentines Special

It is a dress

you wrap your fun 

and bring it down

it sits on the curb

and you are skeptic 

you see a clown

in the middle of nowhere

it has been a while

you turn around 

another year futile

but you like the sound

as the rats who died 

looking for cheese

were as gullible 

as those who didn’t

and when chasing their trail

cheese followed with the cage

how a lost love 

makes a comeback case

the hungry rats again miss the details

another year to yearn

for the ship that always sails..

Changing

I am painting you a picture 

on the canvas of your eyes 

what you see is relative

and depends on your insight

like when night tells dawn

I am too a morning to few life forms

they who can see will change their colours 

those who saw black and white

still how do you rush when you are viscous

and how do you flow when you are rigid

but you will and think about the 

underperformance of everything else 

inside all of us we ourselves dwell. 

this way The mundane project of me

keeps getting more and more pointless

in my own stoic face I am baseless

the vision that I will anyways create

amass project reiterate 

is just a changing proposal of my past

when digged to the core of anything

everything lasts. 
Thought: most changes are selfpreservatory  in nature without our realizing it and even if we do realize that we need the change, we also crave for an acceptance of our negatives or worse we stop caring. How legit is the change then? sometimes us ourselves being unaware of the real depth of it. 

The revered God of odds

This is a call to create me because I don’t exist

and seeing my life I think I may be the one

who walks past the dreams and desires 

skillfully in a bliss remembering the odds on how these existed without the pain

but then I am proved right soon 

leading me to think I created them

but if history of people would talk they would have the same walk

still I am blamed not to live through it with patience

and patience they say some don’t realise they already have it as a character 

while those who don’t are often seen demanding it

I am familiar with this cycle

but I am in the odd

with about everything 

and the slipping society

who will soon think of me 

as a non conformist 

and while they don’t know what they are conforming to

I have to mix in a haste

of being left behind I have to join soon

I see among me other few who are confused the same

and they talk themselves into it each day

this predicament becomes society

and I a social person

and those who live on to carry my burden

and don’t conform

they become my God

of all my odds.

Until the batteries die

Fake respect of fear 

evades into the 

time which runs on clock 

until

battery dies

of the charge person 

has in life 

after that 

character of memory

remains

and love 

no matter how strong 

loses its will 

in losses

and in fear of loosing

a lost love

and everything familiar

life continues

in that time

that runs on that clock

until the battery dies. 

Moon and its sunlight

In depths of ocean everything reflects

on the sun recieved

while it was summer 

and the haste of sunlight 

when didn’t  fill the floor 

of winter’s ocean 

the moon still stayed in dark 

not knowing that the reflection is giving it away

through what the vacuum brought

of the space 

while water didn’t grasp the velocity

of vacuum to fill spaces

the fish stayed flowing at the bottom

waiting for winter to end

on the other hand 

moon in black vacuum 

couldn’t grasp the kind of warmth it sends.

Fickle life of grandma & noor

I would have written better at the time

when you used to churn ghee out of the malai collected by me

but that thought was lost before I could write.

It was constant process but

then, mother changed the method and she instead made curd out of it

she would churn the curd for butter and chaas

with that your hands too changed from firm to soft

in the process whole house evolved

malai was now a distant thought.

 

But reference of it almost never died

turned into a skilled fight

although with malai a lot of stereotypes dissolved

but somehow ones with curd evolved

for house was her commodity now

where her life would revolve.

 

Noor, you should know how to claim what’s yours

but why, if it’s truly mine

it’s not about the curd or malai, she would say

it’s more

it’s always more

good books have rubbed your innate core

 

why didn’t you tell her – said Noor

sometimes Noor you will have to ignore

ghee can be made out of butter too all the more

because to know is not good for her

but for you it will help you take your path

everything fickle is not always lost

what’s important is to let go

as life’s only hope is change

and our will to live up to its game.

 

 

 

 

Terms-

Malai – Fat layer on milk after its boiled

Ghee – clarified butter

Chaas – buttermilk

 

 

Eternally long

I know you don’t look at me that way

like I came out of stars and glided my way right next to you

or the way in which the crowd dispersed to send you my way 

on that empty road 

where no one would have been concerned by another 

we found solace away in the corners

in the pitch dark where we got old 

only to find that age didn’t exist in the time spent 

awaiting the young feelings of love 

and while we mustered hard to keep that will alive of the past 

but it flew with years spent trying hard

In the hundreds of previews of life 

we found the one which we never sought

this thought of being without each other now 

and all that we have lost

admist finding ourselves again via the ways of complex emotions

I reach out to be with you but not in the same way

that I looked at you before 

it is different and flawed 

just how life would like it

and love would abhorr

 I look at you through our damage score

and while beauty lies in eyes of beholder

I find mine tired of not looking beautiful in your eyes

in this striving the pulse changes the way hearts beat

racing veins at your sight, now cease 

to be simple

because complex is long gone 

in the severity of other thoughts 

giddiness didn’t belong

while we both look at each other the same way

it’s not that way 

when the whole cosmos belonged

to be with us 

and when it was supposed to be eternal long.