This word,existence

what was it inside him? a rebel meekly struggling, an angst too weak to burst into vehemence.He hid it from this world by his routine, he yawned along with the others, day after day.He carried it inside him surreptitiously like an illegitimate zygote planted in his head.His morose moods had fed it for over an year. Today, it filled his body from the inside, covered all his organs with black tar. He felt it like an attack of nausea that would not subside. He could bear it no longer, he could not walk as if nothing had happened.It had to be rinsed out of his brain,ejaculated from his veins. But no matter how hard he tried, he could not let it go. It was a parasite he had fallen in love with. It was his creation, afterall.He had nurtured it in the darkest hours of his being, carefully putting thoughts behind his words, shaping it with ideas he coveted, reading it passages from books he loved.It had grown in his stupor,vegetated in his lethargy.It was this word,existence.

The winter morning mist

The blue smoke filled the room like the winter morning mist. What an unoriginal line he had just written. It hangs in the sky motionless. Another one. He could go on describing it, use his limited vocabulary, make a few paragraphs, draw a margin and fair it down in his notebook. Another second rate creation. However he chose to arrange his lines, they would not convey significance. They were more a outcome of boredom than a genuine interest, a meaningless chore to fill the two hours after dinner and to tire his mind enough for sleep. Never had he been consumed with an insurmountable urge, a moment of heightened passion when the pen etches on paper, an extension of the thought that erupts in the brain. Such sudden urges were confined to writers who sat on his table, mocking at his incompetence. Which angel blessed them? How could they write such beautiful lines, lines that carry a world in their words, lines that expose innermost secrets, lines that gave birth to the next one? Lines that resembled none in his notebook. He scratched his head and saw the blue smoke with a fresh perspective. It turned into ink and blotted everything he had written so far.

ode to the moons on your nails

if i could rewrite my poems
i would rewrite them all
not one has the words
that absolve my melancholy
not one has its root
in the crevices of my soul

if i could rewrite my poems
i would write more about nature
and only seldom about you
and not one would be titled
ode to the moons on your nails

if i could rewrite my poems
i would befriend solitude
more than my pen
and wait for each emotion
to age inside me
and find its graceful end

A Prose

For hours he had been sitting on his chair, with his hands on his head and eyes closed. His notebook and pen lay in front of him. He had been thinking about writing a poem.A brimming ashtray ,half written and stricken sentences bore testimony to the sincerity of his effort. What could he think that could turn into a poem? He mulled over his childhood, his youth, his daily routine for some inspiration. Nothing poetic came out of it.He observed his surroundings. A dim lit room, faint smell of tobacco,books that he had read many times, a ticking clock, an old fan with a worn out bearing, nothing peculiar, nothing fascinating enough to make him pick up his pen. Perhaps his flair was in writing prose.

Anonymous

Some feelings have no name for them

what do you feel?

when the cool mountain air
sweeps through your body and your spirit
declares- it is free and botherless.

when you lie outside in the winter sun
and bask in the warmth of ennui
without a care in the world.

when you read a line in a book
that enunciates a thought you had since long
and you stop to read it again.

when a childhood memory emerges
from the depths of your being
and you understand a part of yourself,
a little better.

when you remember a conversation
with an old friend
and a forgotten smile reaches your face

What do you call them?

when a thought lingers on your mind for days
and you ache for that moment of solitude
to find the right words
and turn it into a beautiful poem,like-
"She smelled the flowers
and knew she was in love."

once a fire

There is a smolder in these white ashes
somewhere, refusing to extinguish
waiting to flicker
one more time,
in the damp breeze
and fill the night
with its mellow glow.
Yes, there was once a fire here,
whose flames rose to meet the sky.

my goodbye to you

one day,
we would meet again,
in a different bent of
space and time

free from
the restrains of today
the flaws of yesterday
with only us between ourselves
that day
we would let our hearts
do the reasoning

words would convey what we mean
no emotion would fumble expression
no desires would be left lurking
to form a dark memory

but until that day,
remember me,
my friend

this is my goodbye to you.