Tag Archives: Words

Where did the words go?

lurking away in some corner

of lips parched with the immobility of silence

and trapped

in the slur of the tongue drunk on sleep,

teetering on the edge of memories

that threaten to force you off the brink

of existence.

Happy memories, not sad

for sadness has a beauty about it when alive

but happiness

once lost, takes away the words-

meanders in the dark

And anchors them in the land of the lost.


Kafka stole my poetry

Kafka stole my poetry

The summer last that is.

When light soul liquified

Weighed down- seeped cold.

All my visitors – driven away

From home now nest of vermin

When Kafka stole all my words

The summer last that is.

Gauzed vision has replaced

Clear blue skies with smite

Carefree- that forgotten word

Gives home to vengeful spite

That dreaded moment- realization-

Nothing but a speck of dirt-

In other specks much dirtier

And masks of mirthless mirth

The summer last was when I knew

That Kafka stole my poetry.

But was it ever mine?

Writer’s Block

Hooded man lurks stealthily with blood stained knife

The Cheshire cat keeps close to the baker’s wife

The jeweled crown is stolen from the safe

And the guarded mafia is suddenly unsafe

The dead land’s engulfed with crop circles strange

And a tryst with death is too close to abate

But man rises from rubble to riches

And saints led across fire become witches

He’s noticed her, but no, perhaps?

She’s lost in a maze, and needs life’s maps.

Odysseys started but stopped midway

Are words in my mind, are words in my mind.



Can not the world be vague?

Bound books, thick and theoretical and imposing intelligence on students still unaffected by the many masks the world wears, abysmal aberrations they are indeed. There is this animal instinct in mankind to define everything, as if every grand and trivial object on earth can have a definite form. Define man. Define woman. Define love. Define the ray of sunshine that graciously streams in from the open window forming criss-cross patterns as it falls on the tiled floor. The sense of satisfaction when one has something succinctly defined and written down in a neat hand is as they say, out of the world.

But we must beg to differ.

If anything, this satisfaction can only be next to that of not being able to label, bring to form, delimit. The sense of joy in knowing the unknown is out there, the thrill of anticipation of something beyond words- the knowledge of being ignorant is bliss.

For words cannot define the moment your puppy pushes his wet nose into your hands. Words cannot define a cuddle that lingers long after.

Words cannot define that sudden jolt of fear when you find him not beside you. Words cannot define the shudder running down your spine.Words cannot define the quiet relief when you see a familiar face in the crowd. Words cannot define the fact that you remember the scent long after they left and no, words cannot define the abyss of longing that follows separation.

But no, it is also not possible to define why man feels hungry. Not for food, but for love. For something that he claims he has found, but lacks the next moment. They cannot define how his heart houses someone one moment, and quite somebody else the next. How his heart refuses to let go of a person long after they’ve transcended through to Elysia. How his heart guards his soul. How his mind is a jail his heart is bound in. How even as his life goes on, his heart stops living.

How his heart breaks into crumbs of nothingness even as it pumps blood.

How love makes life seem like a bag of old leaves waiting to be raked up.

Man is complex, and complex seems to be an underrated word. No we are not defining man, for to put the mass of physical traits and emotional anomalies with its bagful of conflicting emotions and unattainable desires in shapes of ink is sure to be unyielding. Try to define man, and you find volumes of poetry; but try and leave him uninhibited in his space, and you find in his complexity unnerving simplicity. Simple because a smile conveys the tremendous joy that lifts a man to the level of frenzy. Because a tear contains the battered remains of a broken heart. Because a kiss has in it the constrained longing of a besotted soul.

Define not the innocence of first love, define not the trembling shyness of lovers, and define not this world.

Let the bound books, thick and theoretical and imposing intelligence on students still unaffected by the many masks the world wears, abysmal aberrations as they are, not misguide you.