Art, Pen

Conventions in Love

Conventions in love,
don’t exist.

Two can discover
ways untrodden,
and make them their own
if their feet
are happy together.

Like dancing
for the first time
to radio.
Those untidy, sloppy steps,
but as long as
they’ve each other
they’re happy
just to spend
time together
in each other’s arms.

Conventions in love,
they don’t exist.


Art, Pen

Yellow, Blue and White


blogI am not good
with words,
but they are good with me.
This is the last of this kind,
for I’m a bit tired of telling my mind
that realities knock down
the sand-castles that fiction builds.

You gave me a bit of Yellow,
when you walked by me.
But you were traveling,
and with moon guiding the tides,
you left to discover yourself.
Leaving me the open Blue, to reflect on.

Time likes to break your bones,
and fix them every time.
It makes colors fade away,
and intensifies the taste.
It makes us appreciate little things.
So now when it’s all turning White,
I touch, smell and taste
bits of Blues and Yellows still left.
I’ll never be sad that we didn’t happen,
I prefer the colors,
in this specific order.

Art, Pen



What happens when
a roaring wave
meets the silent rock
at the bay?

When a drop of ink
falls into water
dissolving slowly
and loosing existence.

When rain kisses
drought struck land,
and stones are cracked open
by tiny shoots,
reaching for the Sun.

When you meet me,
what happens?


Way Out

Why do we yearn perishables?
Shiny glass statues
Soft petals
Gossamer dreams
And naked heart.

And why do we grieve
And cry and feel pain?
Even after knowing
Their finite existence!

Is it about
Falling again and again?
Do we like to be fooled
By ourselves?
Walking in circles
Reaching nowhere?

Can you show me the way out?


Bookmarks of Love

Dear flower,
Pluck or not?
You will surely die, if I do.
For my selfishness knows no bound
And possessiveness for beauty
Throws ethics out of the scene.

And I can frame you,
Inside gold plated, carved wood.
Or keep you among the pages
Of my diary.
Where blood has stained
Everything red and black,
Rotten wounds all over.

Can use some yellow.
Can use some smile.

But, will I really be happy?
But, will you truly be mine?

Art, Pen

Why don’t you fall?

One day
Seeds you’ve kept
In the air-tight jar
Will find the moisture,
From your eyes.
And things you
Never wanted to touch
Or smell or feel
Will flash
Again and again

You have an infinite sky
But no ground to land on
You’ve seen them landing
And loosing their wings, with time.

Lukewarm red dot,
Will help the seeds break the jar
And one day cold winds
And sore wings will
Make you crash-land.