We didn’t feel butterflies in our stomach
Neither did we feel our heart skip a beat
Nor did we mind go to a complete blank.
this single square of sky
And it was different
The feelings this all evoked in us were different
And we were different,
What we had was different
And we loved in all that.
We were holding hands and counting heartbeats,
Searching for humanely souls in each other’s eyes,
And allowing every intoxicating feature of one another
to sink deep within the parallels of our hearts.
You were not the clichés
And how vigorous it was for me to find the words that could summon a fraction of the way I felt
when your brain entangled with mine for the very first time while writing this magazine.
For nothing could have been more beautiful,
nor as precious.
There were no butterflies in my stomach
But there were more than butterflies in my stomach,
My stomach had been devoured whole
And every nerve in my body had went violent.
My heart didn’t skip a beat
But my heart had done more than skip a beat,
My ink doesn’t judge my mistakes
My paper doesn’t argue
My lines never cross me
My sentences never disappoint
It had caused an eruption of fireworks in the core of my body,
sending waves of tingles through the course of my veins.
The poet lives in a different world.
My mind didn’t go to a complete blank
But it had done more than go to a complete blank,
It had brought the oasis of the entire universe to a complete halt.
And right there,
Everything was perfect
I could hear it beat now,
And it was the beats to your heart that made mine different.
Pondering my soul over old scores of knowledge,
writing hours pass by like an illusion.
Travelling through a dozen doors of imaginative cum realistic thoughts,
lost inside a hazy confusions.
Seeking an acceptable solution,
for country heart’s ache to subside,
turning empathy into a revolution
of jointed words with rhyme applied.
Defining decisive and hasty action of bad politicians,
a plan created from simple abstraction,
to create an appealing attraction,
a world created in tantalizing fiction,
that will surely lead to our satisfaction.
Weaving words, a spider dances.
Hands construct my nation’s life imagination,
I don’t want to think that in a world full of color,
I am a blank canvas.
The few, the proud,
wisdom’s truth buried within lines,
a dreamer’s philosophy in annotation.
Driving Pen so fast, but everything seems to be in slow motion
Tasting Blood, feeling you Choking, gasping, crying
when the old terrain is flayed flat
but thru the windshield you see the
plateau ends, the geography unknown,
You’re not a poet because you can heal hearts
You’re a poet because you know what it means to be broken.
Time passes by, the work is finished.
a mind cage, emotions trapped inside,
a blissful peace that pride can provide,
my dark emotions have now diminished.
Experienced pain, a mind fraught,
stranded below this lake of thought,
within a prism, shining with resentment,
made out of fear and disappointment..
The glass cracks with new contentment.
So many words – left un told
So many questions – left un answered
So many moments – left unconquered
All left behind – for the past to treasure
And headed ahead into the future
Into the awaiting unknown…
like the artist and his brush.
an ever dancing pair in
mentality that switch between
union and separation alike.
The body’s ocean is still today,
And within all of this blueness,
The skin and the brain
Became the bluest.
But matches made in heavens
A lettered legacy was conceived here.
Pride in the forefront of work well done.
Even though, my words, in time might disappear,
I hope they were enough for inspiration to be born.
To fly with the wind-tossed crows to roost
somewhere in nearby trees we cannot see –
with the handshake of Friends the meeting ends
and out of silence shyly we again reconnected with the speech and same again.