Cold reptilian eyes Follow me across the bar I fake fear in my eyes I know it turns you on You follow me to the dark Your venomous teeth sharp A cute hickey on my neck I walk away with your tail Don't be fooled by the timid smile Heard there's a new beast in town And came to hunt you down The world is round If you wanna settle scores You just gotta keep walking down There's a special spot For your head On my bedroom wall I wish you good luck Till I see you again.
||Stand in the field of sunflowers.|| Although I no more try to search for hope in the brightest yellow, but someone once told me "hope is the thing with feathers" when I was seventeen summers old and it made me wonder if hope flies & never comes back would I be the most hopeless shade of humanity? It doesn't matter now I've learnt to accept that hope can come in any colour, any form.
||Stop using roses as bookmarks|| The petals are all withered and the words are bathed in red ink, the heart that started bleeding has not stopped ever since. Someone once said to me "if you like a flower, you pluck it; but if you love a flower, you let it grow" so now I've learnt to save roses and mimic beauty the way it is enamoured.
||Dig grave for expectations|| How should I tell my parents that I've only learnt to pass alphabets through tiny cracks of metaphors like a thread passing through needle but I've not known how to stitch whole sentence the way answer sheets desire, they only talk about the ones who stand tall on pillars and I, I lag behind in the audience.
||Put past on blacklist|| The handmade memories are shredding off little by little like dry leaves in autumn and I'm decorating each day as new beginning with cheap moons drawn in anti clockwise direction and walls wearing silhouette of happiness shadowing Moonlight Sonata.
The true art of Reading a poetry Is to feel a fire in your bones Yet ache to burn But here's a toast To a gypsy's song Hawker's chant Pauper's tears To the things not noticed Here's a toast To the poems Half-written, To the words Half-felt.
The city's heavy With saudades Of tired souls And biased stars Of a December sky I shall end up being a surrogate Of dead hearts And tell you, My dear friend This poem is a blueprint Of all the faces You've loved and left And if you feel a flicker, While reading these words Know that it's a greater flare Blazing within my heart.