Battling life

With just a few steps ahead, it would be easier to die,

when all lifelong I have walked, only struggling to survive.

This world is a paradise to sing and rejoice,

only to those who have been lucky, and have had their choice.

Among the few in denial, are many like me,

fighting with thy soul, while losing repeatedly.

With air aplenty at home, forever I could breathe,

in dearth of a purpose though, Iam living in exile within me.

During the darkest of nights, it’s been the candle and the lonely me,

with both sans the desire, every night now is hard to see.

The echoes of the past are plenty to be found,

with none to deny them, they have fairly lazed sound.

The silence in my cries is the quietest of the lot,

while the clock ticking on our wall is the loudest of us all.

Though the only one at my place, with a little flesh and feel,

irony it is , they have all lived a life,

and even without a start, I decide to depart.

Making Love

I wonder what the worlds made of,

without love, it would’ve just been a flowerless park.

When he met her, they started to talk,

not knowing when, it happened and their hands crossed during long walks.

He was on a rampage, to find her a gift,

which no lover in the world, knew it ever did exist.

With words so many, he found an ear in her,

for once he choked, when he held a rose in fear.

She sought some time to grow mature,

but the heart in her yearned for the rose.

When words failed her, she held him near,

with eyes tight shut, their lips found ways to each other.

Love blessed them, a lifetime together,

with their lips still wet, by the kiss back then.

For once she felt, shyness in herself,

and when the lights went dark, their romance saw its best.

The moon stood a witness, to their enduring love,

envied them all along, and rued to be all alone.

Now I wonder what the worlds made of,

without love, you and me would have been dead so long ago.

Walking along

It is an every other Sunday,
Why should I wake up,
When it’s the only day, I can dream of her all day,
when I can revisit those long forgotten joyous days.

It was an every other Sunday,
Until they realized it was Valentine’s Day.
I shrugged not to bother, until,
When the lights went off, I unceasingly wept and wept,
when my hands got tired wiping the tears away.

It was an every other Sunday,
until the door bell rang.
A gorgeous lady with desperately waiting flowers, on seeing me said,
“Oh! Sorry, to have pressed the wrong bell. Besides, have a good day”.

It was an every other Sunday,
when I had the phone charged all day.
Hoping she would call,
I helplessly watched the minutes turn hours, to be a very soon Monday.

Unlike all other Sundays,
today I look back too far,
when once fear and sweat, had reigned my blood,
heart and thoughts in unison had said, “My love”,
to someone, whose absence this moment is the way of life today.
Whose absence since then has kept my smiles miles away.

Writing heals !!!

Beauty of poetry lies in the heart,

mistaken are many, it’s not an art.

Hours long that you cry, if you could write,

tears would dry, before your eyes realize.

Moments that you smile, if you can inscribe,

It’ll cease to exist, not after you even die.

In your pen lies some peace,

once into words, the pain will freeze.

Out in the dark take a walk,

look up the sky and the moon will talk.

Find some grass behind some wood,

decide to be alone, but not to cry.

Watch your clock all night long,

wait to smile, it won’t take long.

Look for a soul, whose warmth consoles,

read what you wrote, and seal the joy that unfolds.

Carry the paper, carry the pen,

if you forget to smile, then it’s time to write !!!

Carry the smile, carry your life,

if you forget to cry, you might just be right !!!