OCD

Sometimes, it feels like 

My chair has a set of eyes.

That it creepily stares at me

To suck all my dreams.

It feels like the wall clock,

Has a pair of ears.

Makes me uncomfortable,

Thinking if it knows my secrets.

I wonder if the gas-cylinder 

Has a nose that sniffs off

My stink and snorts up 

Whatever ambition I'm left with. 

The metal-lock, perfume-bottle. 

The helmet, the iron-box.

The more I look at them and

Think, the more creepy they become.

I freaked out one day and

Accidentally came in front of

The mirror..

My eyes were a pair of chairs.

Two clocks in place of ears.

I sneezed out of shock and

The gas off my nose caught fire. 

Withering Fantasies

My focus goes 

On the eyes first.

Sharp nose next. 

Chubby cheeks, 

Juicy lips,

Waist that brings 

Out the bust. 

Breasts square root 

Of her butts. 

Unbuttoning, 

Her elegance in

A red dress, to

Eat away the

Desire hidden 

In her chest. 

She has been

Far away from

So long. Ahh! 

Disappointment 

Gets me each time

In the guts. 

Cacophony of

This rush. 

How to contain 

Four inches of 

This lust? 

Simply jerking 

Myself off, to

These withering

Fantasies isn't 

Just.

Give away

Open your palm 

And slowly clench it. 

You may wanna

Catch the wind.

Look at the moon,

And slowly close 

Your eyes. 

You may wanna 

Preserve that light. 

As you sit there,

Reclined. A leg, 

Upon another..

And as you lift one 

Ass-cheek..

To comfortably,

Exhale, from 

The other vent-

Hold your breath. 

You owe the

Moment to others.

Let them have an

Opportunity,

To rinse their noses

With primordial 

Gas of your belly

That's scented with 

Hydrogen sulfide.

Pain

The leeches, 

That slither down

Our skin.

The vermins that

Eat over the 

Leftover sleep.

We're not afraid

Of the devil, 

That pays a visit

In our dreams.

The wounds, 

Inflicted this way 

Can eventually

Be healed. 

The worst kind

Of pain has certain,

Hidden softness

About it. Like-

The rose petals

That slit open

Our veins..but

We've been happy

About the smell

That has stayed. 

The bygones,

Who left a memory 

Without care and

The nostalgia, 

Has been ruining

Our days in vain. 

Prison is a bad

Place anyway.

But when we,

Romanticize, 

We scratch open

The scars again.

Surviving

I tumbled in the

Sea of sadness.

I had to build

My boat again

To stop myself from

Drowning. 

But isn't it 

The task? 

Picking up

Ourselves again

And again till we 

Make it to the 

Shore..

I borrowed

Handful of water

To make myself

Some tea.

When the sun

Came up from over 

The salt-scented

Horizon,

I tasted a sip

And captured with

My polaroid,

The scene. 

Surviving pretty

Much is a 

Salt and sweet 

Deal. 

Denial

Before I can let oblivion win.

I'll douse cigarette butts on 

The surface of my skin-

To stash you in my sins. 

Before I let apathy take over.

I'll chisel down all my longings 

Deep enough to cast you down

My ribs. 

On the tip of my nib. 

Around the contours of

My whim. 

And before I let you go 

For good. I shall intimately

Weave you into the fabric of  

Cosmic expanse. So when, 

A star dies, every time,

The vacuum left shall set in 

A fiery impact that can only 

Be filled with your voice.

Solitary Confinement

To all the 

Unheard voices

I have been

Answering. 

For all the 

Unsent letters 

I've been waiting 

To be replied-

Invisible trails

Of ink. 

The Unseen

Things-

At a congregation

Of silence. 

I muffle prayers 

In a corner.. 

With a leash

Around my neck.

Blindfolds and

Gags still intact.