She doesn’t like poetry

She likes her girlfriends and adores her boyfriends too
She likes the hazzy nightouts in shady corners of her friends’ house
She likes to get drunk in the bars
She loves her partner too
But if could, what would I do?
She doesn’t like poetry.

She likes to talk,
Oh you should see her talk,
When she does, she does a lot
She likes to buy new clothes, makeup, and some jewellery,
She loves pictures and songs and TV shows
But what would I tell her, if I could
She doesn’t like poetry.


Constant Companion

Oh moon, distant, yet such constant companion
As no other person has been,
Sometimes, you overwhelm me with your presence
Accompanying my silence with yours
And though I can only touch you with my eyes
In my heart shines your light,
And illuminates my world with a sacred calm
Rendering a momentary yet much desired relief,

sheltering me from the dark.

Still here

I assumed that I was strong
Once again I was wrong,
I thought that the sticks of hope will do the trick,
Since there’s no fireplace here outside,
But the wind of your memories
Won’t let the flames stay,
And leave me in the cold to shiver
Blowing all the warmth away,

And I claimed that my head was sane
But it could not so remain,
And I sit here on this island of rocks,
With a deranged head, and a grieving heart,
In future I see infinity, though
My feet are ready to walk backwards
Time won’t let me go back to the start.

Fuck with Me

She holds Larry’s hands

And talks more to Barry,

It’s me she prefers to fuck


She eats her tiffin with Lily

And enjoys cocktails with Kelly,

But it’s me she loves to fuck with


She cries on Harry’s shoulders

And jokes with Carrie

But she chooses to fuck with me


She lives with her sisters

In a house that serves misters

But she loves to fuck with me.  



When I walk at dawn,
Darkened by clouds bleak
Still dreaming about the previous night,

The cold wind becomes my second skin, the dogs stare at me like drunks still in their slumber,
And the crows cry out my name,

When the early wakers walk by and greet with cold gazes as strangers do,
which they are,
I feel then an urge, a longing for you
Then I wish that winters were a little warm
And every step I take from cold to cold
I long for warmth, and your hand to hold.

While at work
When I strike my hammer on the faces of stones,
In the light without the sun

Amidst the groans of rocks as they become their ghosts,
And the people I don’t imagine or intend to ever know

Thoughts of yours begin to take hold
And when I fail to shoo them away,
I wish that winters were a little less cold.

Finally, when I rest upon my bed
To sleep off the tiredness that rules my days
To rid for few fleeting moments, at least, my mind from the remorse, the despair
That have already stained the fabric of my soul, now, corrupt at its core,

Morpheus refuses me to enter his reign of blissful, temporary death
And memory shows illusions of your presence

I shrivel up, hugging my head
And hope that winters in my grave, are not this cold.

In disbelief

She accepted his refusal
It squeezed out all the passion from her heart
Sucked in all the life from her soul,
Now she roams zombie-like, undead
And the cold words of people don’t instil shiver in her form
The heat of jealousy doesn’t burn her gut,
Phrases of praise have lost their meaning to her
And now, she is as good as The Thinker
Who sits sculpted, contemplating a single moment
Of ache, loss, and grief
Unaware, of people, admirers and haters
She sits accepting his refusal
Like a statue of stone, in disbelief.

All love could be

If there was a sound of love
Mine would scream, cry, and howl
And if it had a figure, a substantial shape visible
Mine would be like a mad man turning into a madder wolf;

If love had a language, a script
Mine would be Aztec-like words with Egyptian-like meanings,
If love was a movie or a play
Mine would would only begin after 1000 screenings.

My love, if it could be felt
It would feel like thousand leeches crawling underneath the skin
If it had a scent to it
It would smell of hell fire!
Oh love, If it could have a character
Mine would be of an undead warrior.

If love could be placed, stacked, categorised into the supernatural
Mine would be the ghost of Asmodeus,
And if love was a tree
Mine would have torquoise fruits, and purple leaves;

If love was a truth
Mine would be such none would believe,
If love was the part of a story
Mine would be called the climax,
Oh love! If it was a poetry
Mine would rhyme life with death.

If love had an emotion
Mine would never grieve
If love was a jewel
Mine would be with the thieves,
If love could be seen
All would, but she would never see
If love was only love
My love would never be.