Doormat

The pain of rejection

Is the greatest pain of all.

It hurts so much inside

To be shunned by the one

Whom you blindly adore.

No matter how long

You wait for him,

Right on your face

He slams the door.

He doesn’t want to chat

With a plain doormat

He’d rather wipe his shoes on;

Having no special charm

From the day he bought;

He spares no time

In sentimental talk;

Yet why is it that

He discards me not?

Is it that I’m firm

And not worn out?

But alas! he sadly

Considers it not.

It’s a good thing

I’ve forgotten my voice

Coughing up the mud

Under his feet;

He needn’t bother to

Silence me down anymore.

And tears are wasted

In the pouring rain,

That drenches me whole

Once again.

Saviour

My love for him is tendentious.

No doubt ; he is a great teacher

Or orator rather;

As ascertained by the millions

Who trail like ants

Or swarm around him

To listen to his words.

For a prophetic voice

And puissant grace

Are a combination that adds

A plethora of charm

To a particular demeanour.

Is he my hero?

Should I quickly

Make up my mind ?

Society has carved a niche,

Wherein lies inscribed           

Golden norms for believers.

For any mortal who trespass

The waters of divine faith;

Oh! The Heavens forbid.

MIRAGE

When my eyes met yours

You did belong to me.

Did I hear your voice

Or was it an echo from my heart?

When I clashed,

Was ego my sword and shield?

Now that the fury of the storm has drowned,

I really want to sing once more;

But the melody I seek is gone,

And so the harmony and concord

Lost to the wind and forgot

Just like a mirage.

Trust

Our friendship, my friend,
Is a faithful relationshi.
The sceptics may ponder
To their hearts content
On how long it would last
For they for certain know
Their own breathing span
And meanwhile an only
Amusement,
A sift in a string;
A string of cordiality,
Knitted in mutual trust;
For one stitched can loosen
To spoil the gross.
But the string
Wrought on rock
Is tiny, yet firm
Which no vile can winnow.

A name is a name

There must be something in a name!
Even after wedlock by the altar,
I chose not to alter my nomenclature
Lest I metamorphose into something
I'd rather not want to be.
If you call me by a different name
It might end me confused;
It is not exactly the 'identity crisis'
Sort of thing that I dread,
But I guess I'd miss being 'me'

Each name carries with it a story
Enacting subtle shades of
Meaning, feeling and colour
Which flower bird or beast
Will like to be called a name
Varied from the original?
Won't it be ridiculous
To call the lion, a sheep
Or the mosquito, an ant?

No jasmine will smell that sweet
If it be called another name
Call the rose, a hemlock,
And witness it wilt its fragrance
And hue to simulate poisonous.
The moth might treat more make-up
To face lift into a butterfly.
The nightingale might cease its melody
Oranges would start tasting like grapes.
Feathers and petals in anarchy;
Lets call for a truce!
Don't we secretly love our nuances?
So does a name reveal a world
Unique to suit the owner's niche.
So why put a pseudonym
To reflect my style
If I'd rather be myself
Than anyone else!

Resuscitation

It feels so good to write again.
After a dirge of an year or so
I seek my lost treasure;
Riding on the reins of  fancy,
My soft fingures
Grip my golden weapon;
Like a horse harnessed
I assume the sovereign
To reign my kingdom
Or does it lead me
A cart at the horse's mercy?
I guess any amateur
Would have felt similiar
When his eyes feasted on
Some creative stone
Found by chance
Along the way.
It feels queer to strongly bond
With some trivial again
And it dawned on me
That the urge to write
Was an unfading flower
Of charm and grace
Lending me breath,
Resurrecting my thoughts,
Painting my world,
Polisihing my new found stone
To a gem of my choice

Broken pieces of glass

When thoughts pour hot

Stir them well

Before they hurt

Your lips.

Jot down the familiar

Wrapped in doubt,

Or conceal a smile

To go straight to it.

The laughter of the unknown

May deliriously haunt

And the only rule is

To mask what you are,

To let no one know;

And you’d end up

With something like

Broken pieces of glass.

The voice says it all

My voice always

Drowns in a crowd.

Not that I’m the

Screaming type.

But aren’t there times

When one would like

To speak aloud,

Or think aloud rather;

And some idiot

Would silence me

As they did to ‘her’

This voice is never

An expression of the self;

Just an inner fancy

Wanting to show off for long.

And the mould itself

But a casual spectator.

Automation

Girls don’t survive

Without a shed of tear,

One for love,

And the other

For fear

A life – giving dew

They hold on to;

Embalming and free.

But now she has

Bottled tear-drops

To burst her heart;

And there comes

An automatic arm,

Only to feel the

Smoothness of her hair.

Look straight

Since there is none

To hold her back

Here she goes

Out into the world

To build a future

Of her own

Why must she care

Whether her heart

Is pending/

She has willed her destiny

And shall not sever

From the path she chose

When there is

None to cling on to,

Its best to be a

Butterfly

And find one’s own flower

Why bother

Whether you live

But a day or two!

Quaint

Isn’t it whimsical,

That folks whom

We never slight,

Are ones who have

Given us the bite.

Be it the serpentine tongue

Of  nefarious jealousy,

Or the more soft enfold

Of sophistical pity;

Warped nicety

Have tickled me

Most excruciatingly

Though against will

I was laughing outright.

Camouflage

Fate may come

In different colours

Each one has a

Novel tinge of shade

Added to the muskier hue;

But let us not complain

For there is nothing

We can do

Invite each one

With invincible strength;

Never hostile,

If not pleasant,

And each one leaves

In a similar fashion

Building room for new;

The primary colours

I’ve tried them all;

A wait and behold

The rarest shade

To encounter you

Muddle

Sometimes its hard to think

And make the right decisions

There are times you feel

You’ll reach nowhere

Thoughts can mortify

A timid soul;

And you feel it’s best

Not to think at all

A mind in turmoil

Is worse than fear

In fear there is comfort;

A notion of the terror

To dread or dare

At times you feel

That all is lost;

But does it help

If you cry alone/

Hot coffee

It’s beautiful

To watch the steam

Curling into the

Most ghostly shapes

From a mug of

Hot coffee

Innumerable forms

Soft and fluffy,

Hug the sky

Wanting to merge

Into thin air

From a distance

The scene is lonely

To sniff the aroma

Of crushed brownies

Is to relish every sip

   Drop by drop.

Lonesome

She has learned to live

With her loneliness

As the days go on

Snuggled and warm,

In a cozy bed,

She has never dreamt

To fly.

Sometimes the echo

Of her own voice

Startles her;

As though she were

Speaking to some spirit.

She has got used

To her shadow

As the light dims;

And curious enough

She has never learnt

To cry.

Halcyon tears

Those tears won’t

Taint her face;

They flow freely

Out of joy,

Not meekly;

But with an air

Of its own,

Proclaiming its own beauty.

It caught hold

Of one of them

And brought it

Close to my heart

It gave me an assurance

Of love and beautiful ease

Feeding on lies

Could all the lies

Of a corrupt world

Wipe out a truth/

Would no speck

Lie remnant

For me to touch or feel

And call it truth/

Our universe is such

Where falsehood dons

The shimmer of virtue

Leaving the simpleton

Baffled and appalled,

Feeding on trash,

Mendacity and deceit

Trapped

He locked me inside

And called the others

To brand me a thief

Flurried, but reticent faces

Peer through the glass;

I tried to laugh

As they opened the door,

Each eye pierced

Right into my soul,

And I had done

No wrong at all.

That aura of

Wonder and awe

Would have made me swoon

If not for the sly

Mocks and moans;

They cant share

What I’m going through

So let me tread my road

Tenaciously sole;

Leaning them astern,

For I hardly recognize

Them anymore.

To forgive

Arranging the books

In the library,

I stumbled upon

The forgotten word,

Which was esteemed

Highly in yester years,

And I wondered

Why the word ‘forgive’

Never strikes us now.

Was it locked

In an ancient box

That none came

To know of it

And became a thing lost,

Or a treasure forgotten/

We all have the key

To set it free;

So with fortitude  lets say

  “I’ll forgive you”

Hatred

Would you love

A bowl of orridge

Tinctured with animosity,

Even when staving/

I think not;

For it chokes the throat

Taking hunger along

With it is to a

Distant land of its own;

And no morsel

Would ever relish

That familiar way,

I did before;

When each tongue

Had a bit of craving