the dead poet

the poet is sad again,
the lonely poet
wandering the roads once again,
incase he finds some pebbles
to keep him company,
miles after miles he walks,
talking to the unknowns,
who become his knowns ones,
and his known ones move far away,
farther and farther with each milestone.

the poet doesn't write anymore,
for he has no story to tell,
his stories are lost in the graves of his lost ones,
he doesn't cry for them,
only sometimes
a tear or two fall,
for he can't stop them,
but he wishes he could.

the old poet sometimes wishes for a different life,
a different story to be told,
only death can fulfill that wish,
but he knows death is yet to come,
he is still young,
though old in thoughts,
his wrinkled, crippled thoughts betray his age
and he is already dead
only no one notices.

so he wanders aimlessly
in the Road of Life,
without poetry,
without Rumi, without Ghalib,
the wordsmith's hammer doesn't work anymore,
the chisel is blunt
it no more engraves the rock,
and like a nomad he runs
from this door to that door,
in the hope
incase he finds,
yes, incase he finds
his lost words,
the words he never wrote.

the suffocated poet

In this hot sultry afternoon,
With people shouting at the top of their voices,
As sweat trip down their dusky toned faces,
My poetry is lost.

Once in a while
I try to write,
But in between I just collapse,
The sounds rotate in my mind,
Merging my thoughts and words,
And nothing comes out.

Some say I need a break,
I say I need lots of them,
The heat is rising beyond its level,
And I find it hard to cope.

Now it has started raining,
I look through my office window
And just watch,
The piercing arrows,
How I wish I could feel the needles,
How I wish I could release my pains.

There are so many things I want to talk about,
So many a things to share,
But neither do I find the words
nor do I find the thoughts.
And I look blankly outside.

The world beyond the window
Seems so tempting,
It neither deals in prose nor in poetry,
I wish I could cross the border,
I am a cursed soul
in the custody of a worn out body.

No, I don’t wish for death,
I want to live
All over again,
I want to feel everything that I have not felt,
I want to feel the world beyond my closed windowpane.

As slowly I return to my old rugged seat,
Away from the world of imagery
In between mundane deeds,
I have lost my poetry.

a distorted youth

Like a street dog
I roam
In the nooks and corners
Of my favourite lanes,
Why?
I don’t know
Never found an answer,
Never wanted to.

I have some friends
Sharing the same fate as I,
Yet I am alone,
Aimless;
Jobless
No,
I am not,
Yet I roam like one,
To find something unknown.

I have left the business of love unfinished,
At the juncture
Where two roads meet,
The feelings still remain unexplored,
The passion unfulfilled.
And I am in a sea of unknown pain,
And I walk towards the shore.

The books that I have read
Failed to satisfy my quench,
I long for an unknown world,
In the nooks and corners of my known lanes.

Sometimes
I ask myself,
Am I mad?
Or the world is going nuts,
I fail to find an answer,
But I ask none.

And like a street dog,
I roam,
Unfulfilled,
Unknown by my known world,
Trying to find a meaning of youth,
Now in the nooks and corners of
My old room.

just my criminal mind

A spoonful of sugar,
Two cubes of ice,
A dash of lime,
30 ml of scotch,
A cocktail prepared,

And with a gulp you drank all,
Your favourite drink.

A white livid face,
A pinch of pain,
A single query,
You ask ‘why’

Left unanswered forever.


A motionless body
Lying on the floor,
Sitting beside it,
I smiled the peaceful smile.

But alas! You died a much painless death,

And I died many,
many more a times.