Ink Flow

He can't write,

Anymore.

Thoughts have

Gone rogue.

She has 

Gone away,

His heart chokes

In a morgue.

A drought 

In in his mind, 

Hardly anything 

Grows.

It's been ages

Since,

Any of his words

Have last flown.

He's a poet

With a plough.

Tills himself to

Keep the Ink aflow.

But it has stopped

Raining there.

Is there a 

Way out? Bro.

War in Head

I sell mirrors

In a kingdom

Of blind.

Words of wisdom

To a crowd

Of deaf.

..

Finding order

In chaos is

One thing.

A knack for

Stoning the

Still waters is

The other.

..

Mundane choices,

Usual noises.

Between extremes.

Lost in the grey-

Hot iron's been

Cast in shape.

..

The sword 

That's cast has

Waged, heck of a

War in my head.

And the blood that's

Split has sung the

Same rhymes again.

.. 

Wounded Pen

Sometimes 

My blood gets 

Frozen,

Skin turns thick.

Mind goes blank,

Pain becomes 

Illiquid. 

Empty walls 

Stare,

Blank papers 

Mock.

Solitude turns 

Into a mirror.

My reflection, 

A failed 

Literature.

I keep stabbing

Myself to make 

My pen bleed.

Ink-trails are 

The only way out

It seems.

Wounds are 

Portals to

Freedom,

When the soul

Does freeze.

Quill is the key.

And the bird that

Flies away is,

A poem indeed.

Poem is a Flight

Mind took me

Places.

Hovered on

Dreamy lands..

Thoughts took

A shape.

A Blue Bird

Was born.

It grew wings.

Was meant to

Fly high..

...

But my throat

Is a graveyard

Where words

Often die.

A standstill.

Fluttered wings.

Poked my mind.

And hit

Some walls.

A frustration

Set in. 

Each day an

Attempt was made.

But how do

You make..

A Dumb person

Talk?

A pen

With a paper

Was such a 

Plan!

And at the 

Behest of 

Ink trails,

Emancipation came.

Thoughts flew

Off my brains.

Peace is just

Another bird.

Poem is a flight.

Reflective Guilt

Stood in front

Of a mirror.

Didn't like 

What I saw.

Put on a smile.

Screamed, 

And cried.

Wore colours,

And a new hat.

Blood throbbed

The same.

Moments passed

In vain.

Mundane is

My thing.

Pretnse stuck

Like side wings.

To start over.

I used an eraser

To rub off my 

Story written in pen.

Mistakes undone.

Mirrors stare,

For the story

That's gone.

For the papers

I have torn.

Killed Poetry. Poet died.

Last night. 

Maybe be before that. 

My poetry died. 

Or did I kill her? 

I don't know. 

I don't care much now.

She choked on me 

Or I gagged her. 

What can I say?

I couldn't stand her. 

She couldn't stand me. 

Asphyxiation I guess.

Thoughts in head 

Found no words. 

Emotions didn't flow 

Blood turned thick. 

Skin, too smothering

And lapse of purpose.

A good kind of 

Claustrophobia? 

Possible. Yeah.

Died or killed? 

Doesn't matter. 

She's just not there.

Turned to dust,

Ashes or memories?

Who knows.

Then the poet?

You may ask.

I guess..just.. 

Flesh and bones.

He shouldn't matter. 

Awe

I was so hooked to

The mundane,

The mediocre and

The obvious. That..

Anything just above 

Ordinary would have

Held me in surprise.

And you were a 

Rain laden cloud

Around my dry land.

An yearning had to 

Come up. Poetry

Had to take birth.

And it did. 

Dreaming

Till,

A poem from 

Distant lands,

A story from

Inner depths and 

A melody from 

I don't know where-

Finds me..

I've to 

Keep breathing. 

Keep living. 

Her Approval

A story I was 

Brewing for you,

Is hot and ready.

I suppose it's not

Overcooked or spicy.

And the salt is right.

And I hope you like it, 

With closed eyes and

A pretentious sigh.

Do it, even if you

Don't like the taste.

I'd love the expression.

And how about a

Poem as dessert? 

Or rather some

Witty sarcasm?

Unread Poem

Adrift thoughts 

Were surrounded.

Beat, bullied, tied up. 

Locked them up in words.

With an ink-thirst spear,

Imprisoned on a sheet.

They,

Sougth some attention.

Over and again. Distraught,

Cried for little help.

And finally, when a lover's

Eyes caught them.

Had them linger on lips.

Redeemed they were.

Brain Harvest

Lingering words,
Unsettled thoughts.

Incomplete lines and
A cut loose desire.

Off my cloudy mind
It just might rain.

Time to harvest some
Words into a verses.

Spontaneity

Sometimes
It's too much.

Legs given up,
Mind suspended.
Ache in the heart.
And crazy intestine.

Shutting your own-self
From yourself.
You just lie dead
On your empty mind.

Yet, a thought,
Pokes out of
Your rigid walls.
Fires-up itself,
Takes a ride with
The crazy wind.

Soaks in night,
Grows wings to fly high.
Basks in the starlight
And when it's back-

Walls down,
Infected with a verse,
You're all filled up.

Really!
Too much for a day.

The Poem I Am

An unfinished poem
Is a hungry,
Restless beast,
On a hunting spree,
For right words.

The finished one
Is a calm
Composed bird.
The one that makes
Heart as light as
A humble feather.

I wonder if I am
Either. Neither.
Or both.

Butterfly Effect

The sky coughed
A roar.
Frightened clouds
Cried rains.
And the plants
Giggled a bloom.

The birds to
Sing a joyous song,
The son of a man
Surprised himself
With a poem.

Unsaid. Unheard.

I've questions
I don't wanna ask.
Answers she might
Not wanna know.

So I sit here locking
Things in metaphors.
Knitting wings to
My words.

So that they can
Linger around and
Can never be
Unsaid or unheard.

Apocalypse

Sealed the mouths.
Pens snatched.
Papers seized.
All the poets were
Surrounded and
Burnt to death.

A metaphor was
Born out of the
Ashes.
It radiated poems.
Like it was a
Radioactive decay.

Gags removed,
Chains melted.
Free thoughts
Survived.
The rest couldn't
Breath the clean air.
It was too toxic.

Verbal Carnage

Through the darkness,
I stare at the ceiling.
It can't get any emptier.
And the silence spreads.
Smothers my mind
With a blank paper.
A blinding white.

A lonely echo from
Around the corner says,
Darling, you don't need
A pen to carve
Your words tonight.
I'll just make you bleed.

And this carnage
Goes on very night.
And you my friend,
If you ever fall short
Of words, come. Collect.
There's enough
Bloodshed.

Debt

I'm an
Indebted poet.
And you're my
Greatest lender.

Right?

For the words I've
Borrowed and the
Metaphoric loans
You've availed-

The stories I make
And the poems I write.
Are just the
Interest payments.

Quench the Unsung

I was,
A rhymeless poem,
A wandering tramp.
A stray thought in
An empty mind.

You came in;
Showed a dream.
Wrote a song.
And Pfff! Gone like
A cut lose kite.

Now a stage set,
Guitar is tuned.
My feelings are ripe..
Ahh! In here, It's a
Rampage of desire.

Ye! The angel from
The lands, unexpected.
Stop haunting me
Like an unexpressed
Grief.

Come over for a while,
Give me a sign.
Poke the guitar,
Sing a song,
To quench the unsung.

The Unsung

Thoughts are
Running wild
To fall into words.

And I'm tired of
Becoming just
Another verse again.

I want someone
To come, to
Usher some rains.

Not to write,
But to sing.

I want to dance.
I'm tired of
The unsung.