They both wandered in to the night,
unaware that the other one too,
was in the dark labyrinths prowling,
itching to bury so many lies festering,
painful it felt, not even letting the stars
know that what it meant for their love,
that was a wild red flame creating hopes of permanence.
the stars twinkled above with fervor
night was the marsh, convenient for them to hide
every dead dream deep in to its slush, the past
but they knew this night, they would never walk past,
the stench of dreams forcefully buried would haunt
even if they pretend everything is pushed
too deep in to the mud and they are clean hereafter.
when they came out one by one, unaware of the other
drained and ridden by anxiety-
a pale moon was waiting for them to reappear from the quagmire
on her face was a quizzical look,
the moon has her rays driven deep in to their darkened psyches
yet he thought his secrets weren't exposed,
he sat looking at the melancholy moon,
and sang that song that pleased his love, without fail
it sounded like a ritual for the dead ones, dreams in fetus.
then, she approached on tiptoes as if she is a form of death
out to steal unfortunate lives
they stood face to face, everything was revealed,
the cadaverous moon looked on them both
they were felled as if eaten by past, a sleep that will never let them go.

From afar I stand structurally sound,
No large gashes or permanent pinkish slashes,
But wind your way closer and peel back your eyes
The rust begins to show,
Climb inside I'm slowly eroding,
And collapsing.
Most feel it's better to partially admire
From behind a series of cement structures
Only glimpsing at my strength and stability.

It must be hard
If you're not depressed
To understand the difficulty
Of just getting dressed
It must be hard
If you don't starve
To imagine winter woollens
Hats, gloves and scarves
In the summer.
It must be hard
If you don't ***** your food
To understand the waste
Once it's been swallowed and chewed
It must be heard
If you don't hear voices
To imagine
Someone else
Dictating your choices
It must be hard
If you don't have compulsions
To understand the urge
The panic and convulsions
Of just saying no.
It must be hard
If you don't have an attachment
To a narcotic or a bottle
To understand how it can
Throttle you, to just one more hit.
It must be hard,
If you don't cut at your wrists
To understand
How someone could do this.
It must be hard
If you don't suffer highs and lows
To understand how quickly
Such a feeling, comes and goes
As it pleases.
It must be hard
If you've never had a chemical imbalance
In your brain
Or a contributing factor, a stressful event
To understand the insane.

It's not like a broken leg,
A sprained wrist, the flu
Where someone can easily
Treat and diagnose you.
It's not something that just goes away
And I'm not trying to say
That everyone doesn't understand
I'm just lending a hand,
To those who struggle
To make sense
Of the dents in our thinking
The depths that we're sinking
The vacant eyes that are blinking
As we're thrown around inside
Our own minds.

2013 ©

Poetry is the dress she always adorns herself,
the see-through floral patterns reveal her more-
than conceal, my eyes imbibe its aesthetics in the fraction-
of a moment and to tell the truth, they are thankful.
Poetic is her walk, her rhythmically swaying buttocks-
subtly speak by allusion of genetic possibilities vast;
in her movement's poetry  my lineage would be safe.
Her lips part, the warmth, ruddy pout and perfect shape suggest
her sensual love making  wound be both tender and swirling
like the  poetic feeling, an image unleashes to overpower me to surrender.
Poetry makes its essence look like a fine silvery glint
in those deep eyes, that have a sensual droop in the eyelids.
Arrows straightly directed to my tender heart, from the bow of her chest
contrary to the normal, creates a cadence, poetic utmost !
She is,  nothing but poetry in motion, rooted in beauty's repository,
that never will fully drain,  even if the most she makes her own  often.

If I could be a poet
Not just on paper,
But in every moment of life,
I know I'd keep you much happier.

I'd have no ego
To bruise you with,
For a slave of rhythm,
Doesn't sing egotistical hymns,
Like a poet, I'd be giving and kind
Like a poet, my heart would double up
As my mind.

If i could be a poet,
Not just on paper,
I would never be the heart breaker
I am for you,
For who would know better
Separation, agony and pain
Than someone who cries only
through words and smudged ink stains.

I wish I were a poet
I'd be truthful and loyal
Like poets are to their art,
Like a precious manuscript, I'd guard
Your gem of a heart.

Forgive me love, for this handicap of mine,
For being the kind of lover
Whose poetry for you either
Stays bottled up inside,
Or manifests itself
Merely on paper.