Emancipation

I scribble my thoughts in

My notebook.

If something comes off well,

I type it and pin it in 

Google Keep for editing.

After regular rounds of

Mending, bending and 

Restructuring of the tone.

I unpin it before posting 

It in my blog.

It's like granting freedom 

To a prisoner. 

Like, an idea was held for 

Trespassing the premises 

Of my mind-

His plea had to go through 

Rounds of considerations,

Before his behaviour 

Was considered apt.

And when it seemed

He lived upto the mark,

He was set free in the

Poetry's realm.

And now that he has 

Earned his freedom,

He belongs to the hearts 

Of whoever reads.

POV

I like the Third-Person-POV 

Of mine who goes on 

Scribbling word after word.

Sentence after sentence.

Stopping for a while to

Search for words and then 

Go on in rhythms with a 

Set flow.

This simulation that runs

In my head, flowing around 

Like a river in search of 

New oceans.

I feel the tones, the pauses.

Breaths taken when I 

Run out of words and swish of 

Wind when a good sentence 

Strikes my head.

It's an unstructured play of

Aligning lines, before something 

Translates on the paper.

While I stood looking at

The burst-crackers in the street

From the previous night's

Celebrations-

I toppled over an idea and 

The subsequent stream of 

Thoughts landed me in this 

Poem.

Playfulness

At first, you battle with your mind-
Trying to enslave your thoughts in
In tough words.

Forcefully attempting to knit meaning
In metaphors. Hoping they would
Grow wings one day.

But can clipped wings fly?
The caged birds sing?
The arrogant poet you're initially-

Not knowing the art of letting go-
The edgy arrogance smoothens out
To give way to a playfulness eventually.

You surrender to your mind and
Let yourself flow in uncharted
Territories.

The erstwhile Lake becomes a river
And you give it a chance to join
The ocean. Standing on the sidelines-

Slow, observant. Ready to borrow a
Glass of water from the eternal flow to
Make it into a verse.

Unsure always to declare it as a
Full-fledged poem-- Not being sure
Opens up innumerable possibilities.

Now you can be the Beginning, the End,
Or the middle. Or All of it, None of it or
Simply the in-between.

Quietude

Somewhere there's this quietude.
Waiting on a hill, looking at a nullity-

Sitting by a lake, waiting for
The ripples to come, touch your feet-

Imagining yourself in a dark room,
Eyes closed. Searching for something.
Searching for what?

This quietude you can't listen to.
Quietude you can't feel or touch-

Trying to translate it on sheets and
Sheets of paper. Not satisfied with a
A pen or colour or your intent.

Ending up relating yourself more to
The blankness of the paper than any
Of the stories written-

Each paper, screaming, louder than ever.
And you, growing quieter every time
You scribble.

With each appeal and attempt-
Between the noise and silence.
The void, getting bigger and bigger-

The artist in you, smaller and smaller.
Till one day when you disappear from
Your art. Consumed by the void.

Only then it's complete.
Only then peace. Only then a poem.

Happy Spitting

Most poems are 

Buried in your belly.

You gotta dig them up

With a shovel and 

Pull them up.

Many are stuck in

Throat. You need

To gargle sometimes.

You cough them out

Now and then.

Best ones dance on

Tongue. They're like

Spit. They just come

Out of the mouth 

Without effort.

But the belly needs

To be dug, for you

To drool at ease.

Efforts, no doubt 

Are important.

Some fine ones are 

Stuck in the nose too.

Sneezing is fine but 

Sputum again is not 

A good poem.

Sanitization of Words

The moon needn't be in
The poems today.
The bulb in the room
Often feels betrayed.

The swish of cool breeze
Needn't hail,
The ceiling fan between
2-3 asks, how does it

Matter if Americans can't
Catch the reference?

Bring in that shabby pillow,
Your bag and socks.
The bucket too wants
To be hosted here.

The first time someone
Debuted a TV,
Broke all the rules of
Victorian-era poetry.

Bring in your dirty
Underwear- there are
No rules. Sanitization of
Your words is just pretense.

If your toothbrush hasn't
Made an entry yet.
Your poetic exploration
Hasn't been enough.

Dystopia of a Poetry

A poem is a kid's persistence,

To have an elephant for 

Himself in his favorite bottle.

A poem is a lover's belief that

Even in Satan's heart, he can 

Manage to find her.

A poem is a battle against

The world to prove that unicorns

Are hatched out of eggs.

A poem is a the way midnight

Screams at an empty road

Without making any noise.

Silence of raindrops touching

The last leaf of a dying tree,

Crackle of dew settling on

In the Savannas after it was

Destroyed by the fire.

A poem is Grandmas eating

Chocolates without guilt,

Moms taking dance classes,

While cooking and nieces 

Forcing you to be a customer 

In their imagery restaurant.

A poem is a belief, a revolt.

A hope, a memory.

It's the sound of pain from

Epiglottis. Whispers of

Cussing in the rosary beads

Used for chanting.

It's anything really.

What you can write and 

What you can't. What you can

See and what you can't.

The long episodes of blankness,

Random streaks of lunacy.

Poems are overwhelmed

Emotions popping out like 

Popcorns. One by one you just 

Put them in your mouth to 

Watch this dystopian movie

Called life.

Poems are your children

Poems are your children-
The, could have been,
Would have been and
The actual ones.

The ones you would have
Laughed, cried, and silently
Missed all along.

And as they learn to walk
Through you- some fall
And rise.
Some tumble off a rock
And break their head.

Some come out with a
Limp and you gotta hold
Hands to say it's okay.
Some turn out to be
Mute and blind-

To accommodate them
You learn sign language
And Braille.
Some will top the class,
Some, commit a crime.

The one you wouldn't
Have wanted will make you
Laugh and one you revered
Will, maybe drag you down
The street naked.

But is it immoral to have
Them?
Are you even worthy of
Making that judgment?

When you yourself- a poet-
A bastard out of an
Orgy in your head.
Why not let them take-

Birth out of the random sparks
In your head to run across
The lanes of their fancy?

To reach unintended places

To trigger more sparks-

That might melt down, all

The miserable strongholds. 

Poet

The old photo frames,

With their tattered
Black and whites, still
Try to be relevant.

The fake plastic trees,
That sit in the showcase,
Mock the houseflies,
In an attempt to ooze life.

Dust ridden trophies
Looking down on the
Broken toys still seem
To be haughty and proud.

The dried flowers,
Stripped off of all fragrance,
Still peeking from the corner,
To lure the bees in vain.

And I'm sitting here,
Judging them all,
Trying to gather up all
Ill-fated words to prove..

That I'm a goddamn
Poet at last.

Poetry in handcuffs

When you force out the

Words from the ghetto of

Your rigid mind.

And they slide down

Perching, through the

Labyrinth of mutilated

Thoughts.

The life out of it losing

All objectivity and

The objectivity having

Squeezed out of life..

As they cascade down

Via the pretense of

A verbose pen to spread

On the charade of a paper.

The reader has to tie

It up to a chair to beat a

Confession out it, 

For some meaning..

Only to give up in dejection,

To flush it down into

Forgetfulness; in search of

A better meaning to life..

Than this tragedy 

Called poetry.

Compulsive Habit

When the moon

Comes up.

I gotta to put him

Down in my words.

When leaves rustle, 

Sparrows chirp. 

I gotta host them

In my pages. 

From amidst the

Casuarina trees,

When the wind blows,

I want it to bask in 

The warm comfort 

Of my reveries.

This noose around

My neck-

A compulsion to

Blurt it all out.. 

Tonight, the lizard 

On my wall, crawls, 

Holding a gun to 

My temple.. 

As, about it,

I'm unable to write,

Even a single 

Sentence.

Self Censorship

Weeping of any form should be
Declared as a crime.
Teardrops kissing the cheeks is
Love-jihad.

Speaking of any sort should be
Looked down upon.
How dare you set your lips apart?

Blinking of eyes, throbbing of heart.
Even breathing is such a laborious
Task, unemployment, that's why
Is so rampant.

The left of the brain, slips in a duel
With the right. while grey cells
Tend to go on a hunger strike.

And from around somewhere,
A crooked thought, undemocratically
Dictates its terms, the rest of the
Neurons do not fire up in protest.

But my confused hand doesn't
Follow restraint. To make a point
It doesn't hesitate.

Un-aware, it bloody doesn't
Understand that these battles
Often die unceremoniously-

On a piece of paper...

As Pens, do not have enough 

Firepower.

Transcendence

Don't try,

To force

Your thoughts,

Against fragility

Of words.

Till they fit into

A noose and

Die dry on a

Sheet of paper.

Don't try,

To milk your

Emotion into

A jar of pretense.

Till they choke

Under a charade

And fail to evoke

Any real feeling 

Off them.

Let it come to

You like a 

Feeble caress of

A lover.

Let it come to

You like a 

Gentle brush

Of wind.

When you sit

Aloof and as she

Passes by in

Your mind like

A fagrance.

If a tiny spark

In your mind,

Materializes into

A thought to

Fall in love with

A word.

Maybe then.

Maybe then

Pick up that pen

To trace the

Transcendent

Line.

Dead Words

We don't talk

These days.

Yet some silence

Lurks around,

In bits and pieces,

In Appeal.

We don't see 

Each other

These days.

Yet this longing

Hangs tight

Like a hungry bird

Poised to peck.

Memories of your

Scent.

Creases of your 

Skin. 

It's hard to sit

Idle with you 

All-over my head.

So I try to force

My thoughts,

Into fragility of

Some words. 

They eventually

Fall prey,

To fit into a noose 

And die dry on a 

Sheet of paper.

There's nothing

Blander than 

Watching dead words

And I'm swimming

In the smoke of 

My own funeral pyre.

Dead Poet

Dear poet. I read your obituary in the newspaper. Didn't know how to interpret it. 

Are you really gone or is it one of the instances that you just can't write? 

Are you choking on your words or you have done away with yourself from over a fan? 

I hope it is just a series of miscarriages in your head. I would like to believe that you are in your cave, taking time to come up with something new as you always do. 

I didn't know how to comprehend the headline, "Death of a poet". As it seemed like a beautiful metaphor you would use.

Hope everything is fine. And you're working on your next piece.

Tainting Apathy

The papers want

To be tainted.

They pray for 

Redemption from

The blinding of

The blank.

The pen is a 

Messenger of 

The god.

Rescuing the 

Damned.

Poetry is a 

Warrior knight. 

Cosmic Job

There's a strange 

Feeling that's 

Simmering on the

Tips of my fingers.

An unusual quiver

Passing beneath

My feet. 

I feel a layer of skin

Upon me and 

Someone is trying to

Break it free.

Looks like something

Is in wake. 

My pen wants me

To go on a ride.

A piece of paper

Must be praying

For its redemption

From the blank.

Cosmic forces may

Have chosen me

For the job..

To balance the

Equilibrium..

Let me write a

Line. 

Hello

These bruises 

And scars.

Half-cut smiles, 

And broken stars.

Little insides that 

Die daily to 

Humiliation and

Self-sabotage.

The taints we 

Nourish to grow

Colors..

A slang from you,

An Arrow from

Another.

Our palette,

Full of blame 

Is pretty much 

Borrowed.

We're poets sire,

We paint in words,

Take on nerves and

Live in shadows.

You may not 

Recognize us.

We don't reside in

Hearts that are hollow.

Come and see us,

If you've time.

We're just a 

Thought away.

If you peep in 

Your head, 

In search of aesthetics 

In the dust 

Of your mind..

Hello..!

Wake of Revolution

Termite infestation

In my heart.

Creeping everywhere,

These dusty burrows

Tell me that they're

A piece of art.

Leaches feeding

On my soul.

Purge of my mind,

The Holi I'm part of

Is a bloody war. 

Gag on my mouth,

Flies in my head.

Blood has turned

Thick, 

A nuclear fission

In wake.

These words,

Crawling inside.

Before they 

Burst open and

Write a revolution..

Give me my pen.

Artistic Paranoia

For a 

Half baked soul 

In a fully grown

Body.

An overcooked

Poem,

For this night

Feels heavy.

The Ill lit humour,

This sweet 

Dessert carries..

Can subsume

A galaxy..

Can't take it

I'm really sorry.

Those compositions

Are musical

Diarrhoea..

Your paintings,

Artistic malaria.

Is this the way

World's gonna end?

Apocalypse will

Just be an artistic 

Paranoia?

I don't know,

You tell me.

Starting with mine.

You're putting all

The lives at risk.