I watched him
Rock his body back and
Forth.
Thinking of how he could
Easily destroy me.
Thinking of the
Tender kisses and the
Heated fingertips on my skin.
He closed his eyes,
Listening to the music he loved,
Thinking of nothing but
The beautiful sound.
But he turned his head,
Looked at me,
Put out his hands and
Pulled me gently towards him to
Share his love.

I was in his arms and
I felt like the world was finally
Okay.
I didn't feel the need to
Want my bestfriend nor
My teacher,
My handsome mentor.
I didn't feel the need to
Stop breathing.
Instead you gave me breath.

Aggressively self-conscious
His excited fingers stumble along the outline of her body,
Bemused in the smoke.
His mind flies as his nerves sing.
Beautiful, behind the smoke;
She’s used to better.
Losing her patience,
Kissing his warm neck with a mouthful of smoke,
A limp wrist and bored finger.
It stings her eyes;
Smoke, suspended and still in the room,
Becoming part of the air.
His smile, awkward and pale;
Sick with her sense of failure.
Dazed by the smoke
She grabs her skirt, tucks in her blouse;
Watching him watch her through the screen of smoke
From his naked mattress.
Her shape is a ghost behind its shield,
He was touching her only moments ago.
She is gone. The door locks.
Sunrise paints his time lost.
In the room, smoke tells of past events.
She is busy living; he won’t call.
This, between him and the smoke, suspended and still in the room,
Smoke that has become part of the air.

When we talked the other day at lunch
we were standing in the hallway
you holding my hands tightly
between yours
and a piece of paper crumpled in the
sweaty palms of mine
told me that your identity was
hope.

And I've been thinking about identity a lot lately.
How, for so long, I've felt like I had none.
I was a piece of college-ruled paper
ripped, torn, taped to a back alley wall
with names and dates and places
all written in a rainbow of Sharpies
from people who's faces will never escape my memory
my handwriting with the cursive "f"s
nowhere to be seen
words I'd written so long ago
buried beneath the influence of everyone else.

I believed that, if I had a word at all
my word would be something like
smothered, suffocated
lost, broken.
And, in a way, I guess it is.
But I think it's more than that, too.

I think that my word isn't just
right here,
right now.
It's the past, it's the future
it's what I have, and what I'll never possess
it's what I need, and what I crave
it's what makes me feel so much, yet feel nothing at all
it's what I'd do anything for, yet what I fear the most
it's safe, and it's dangerous
it's beautiful, and it's ugly
it's small, but so magnificent.

It's how I feel when my daddy holds me tight after a long day.
It's when my mom says she doesn't want to see me hurt.
It's why I always hold on a little too long when you wrap your arms around me.
It's an excuse for hurting myself in an effort to protect those around me.
It's what I say when there are no other words.

It's why I push people away
but long for them to come closer.
It's why I run away, keep my distance
but, when you're not looking, lean in a little further.
It's why I text girls 300 miles away
but feel like she's right there beside me.
It's why I kiss boys in the rain at their parent's house
but, somehow, still doubt myself.
It's why I make promises I can't keep
but wish you wouldn't do the same.

It's why I laugh with you and cry without
It's why I hold your hand with my left and take pills with my right
It's why I read stupid books and write ****** poetry
It's why I believe in nothing but wish for something.

It's me, telling myself that if Mom really loved me
she'd put me before the glass of wine.
And it's me, convincing myself that it's my fault
and that I'm not that important, anyway.

It's me, telling myself that if I had friends
they wouldn't leave me alone on a Friday night.
And it's me, telling myself that no one
would want to hang out with me, anyway.

It's stupid things
it's serious things.
It's stupid things taken too seriously
and serious things mistaken for stupidity.

It's the past
it's the present
it's the future.

It's what I want
what I need
what you give me.

It is lost
it is suffocating
it's shattered into a million pieces.
But it's also found
it's alive
it's messily put back together with a 6'3'' hot glue gun.

My word is perpetual
eternal
infinite
but so fleeting.

It's me
because I am
forgettable, only wishing to be remembered by someone, someday
sad, looking for joy in things big and small
a hypocrite, begging for proximity then crawling far, far away.
I am miserable, but so happy
I am identical, but somehow completely different
I am what-ifs, maybes, and might-have-beens.
I am quoting Jethro Tull songs in my confessions.
I am words in my head that will never escape my lips
I am words on my lips that should never have escaped my head
I am things I'll never say and stories I'll never write
I am singing in the shower, dancing in the halls
I am running across busy streets and standing on freshly painted front porches.

And so is my word.

It's me
but it's not
but it is.

I was convinced
that the English language
was too small
lacking
missing something.
But then I realized
it wasn't.

You told me who you were
and one day, it'll be my turn.
I am
love.

I Don't know why I rhyme
Why I pen romantic lines
And long for a girl I haven’t seen
for a relationship that has never been

In my poems sadness resides
What is this pain that never subsides?
Why my loneliness is at display
and I always  seem to pray?

But, however sad my poems may be
each one of them makes me happy,
because they let me dive into a pool
that is breathtakingly beautiful


These rhymes are little trips to heaven
they are a gift  god-given
they are my escape from the real
they let me see things I never will


They are dreams on a high altitude
they are my companions in solitude
they lend some meaning to my life
they save me from the regret-named knife

They aren’t mere worldly creations
they are the stretches of my imagination.
and a relief to my heart
and a path to self-realization.

I open my heart to them
I share my secrets with them
They are outlets for my frustration
and a library of my emotions

I regret I didn’t rhyme for years
I regret sadness went down in tears
Easier would have been those tough times
if had only written some rhyming lines!

-Amul Garg

How do I thank the one
to whom I owe my entire existence?
From the smile I share, to my wavy brown hair,
to the blood flowing through my veins

To thank her fully I think I'd need
each one of a beach's grains of sand--
one for every bit of love she's shared
lifting my soul from frequent despair.

Though that still wouldn't be enough
I'd then need every star in every galaxy
to then shed light on her beauty
and even then they'd be a pale analogy

So I call on the oceans and the seas,
who have separated many, for generations,
on how to cope with the distance
and how others survived such separation.

When we're apart you must feel idle,
alone, and often unthought of--
but truly you're a lifeline, that to me is vital;
therefore, never discount your worth for a second.

So I apologize for the sleepless nights,
spent waiting for me to come home and those spent worrying,
and sorry for leaving your nest so suddenly,
even though you'd wished you could stop my flying.

But I thank you, for never thinking ill of me,
and for nurturing who I turned out to be,
and for unconditional love, though I'm unworthy,
and most of all, for being my mother, and ever so motherly

i’m too shy
to tell you
how i feel

so i’ll hide behind
timid smiles
and soft hellos

i’m afraid
if i ask you

“what do you think of me?”

your reply will be

          
                              
                               “i don’t.”