Tag Archives: poetry

A letter to nobody: Revel in her perfect imperfections

Dearest Nobody!

Let me be very honest about it and let me say it all loud and clear!

You defy your feelings. You deny your love. You hoodwink yourself let alone the entire universe. And it is rather alarming.

You are half dead and it pains me. You live but you are living in denial. And I find it cringeworthy.

You keep trying to find an escape. In vain. From yourself. From every object around you.

From everything that has life. From everything that lacks it.

I know you love her. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be around. Pursuing her. Despite failing at it badly.

Because you are sure that she is a meaningful pursuit rather than just another disposable pleasure.

And you are afraid. For, she is a pursuit that never consummates. She won’t last forever.

You might as well, my dearest one, for her may just be a passing fancy.

Things change. Priorities change. Separation ensues. Distances grow.

Inevitability of change plays its part. Forgetfulness takes its toll.

But remember! Just because something doesn’t last forever doesn’t mean it loses it luster and diminishes its worth. And you totally understand that.

People part and they move on. That’s life. People come and people go, in and out of your life. That’s how it works. Because life goes on, you know, right?

Years lapse by. However, deep within, there is still a part of you that she cohabits.

Memories become your solace. And memories haunt too.

That is exactly when you understand the value of memory.

That is exactly when you understand the idea of immortality of events.

You understand eternity.

When in love, you are in no condition to distinguish between the right and wrong.

And that’s totally human.

And you find no flaws but only virtue.

You overlook all the scars and merely see perfection and grace.

She casts every ray of awareness upon your love for her, the moment you lay your eyes on her.

She casts spells over your mind even during the moments when she is out of sight.

She may not be the perfect personification of beauty. But she is beautiful nevertheless. In her own way.

Like you are saying now and you have said it before.

Nothing looks prettier than her pretty pointed nose and seductively smoggy eyes and sugary smiling lips and slender silvery neck.

And she is full of whims.

You never knew before meeting her that the whims could be as delightful and exciting too.

Imagine loving someone to the level that her caprice starts to sound cute and seem comely.

She is a wild creature.

And there is something beautiful about her wildness, right?

And she is weak. And she is vulnerable.

And she doesn’t even wear false pretensions of power and resilience.

And she is dangerously honest about her vulnerabilities.

And she is a free soul. Isn’t that lovely?

What floors you most is her completeness, and her craving for freedom and her longing for perfection.

Times have left its marks on her mind and scars over her soul.

Know that she was destroyed before.

She needs pampering. Treat her with care  and kindness and vigilance.

If she decides to be with you my dearest one, she will do it with all her entirety. Know this now and know this well.

Know that she will have to step over her fears and insecurities to be with you.

And fears don’t fade away in a wink of an eye.

They take time. Give her time.

If she loves you and respects you and entrusts you with an opportunity, treasure it with all your heart and soul.

Don’t ever let her down.

Know her. Read from the pages of her life.

Spend every moment with her as if it were your first. And last.

Be present. Physically and emotionally. And read.

She comes with an emotional baggage. Share it.

Strive to stimulate her thoughts and her emotions.

Plunge into her soul like you will dive into an ocean.

Know this that her love and existence will heal every part of you.

But remember this. Don’t try to fix her. Ever.

She doesn’t need fixing.

She is complete with all her pieces – which could, might as well, be scattered.

Just don’t try to mend her.

Don’t ever treat her like she were a broken woman.

Let her past scars and marks be!

You should just not be the one to inflict more upon her.

She would want to undress her soul in front of you and be utterly herself.

She wants you to look at her like every woman would want to be looked at!

Give her all of you so she could give you all of her.

Revel in her perfect imperfections.

Build her up. Uplift her.

And enjoy the art of reciprocation.

Talk to her about the stars and moon and sun and oceans and entire galaxies and all that is beautiful out there.

Treat her right. Respect her. Protect her.

Allow her the privilege of privacy. Trust her.

Appreciate her.

And last but not the least, give her all of you so she could give you all of her.

Revel in her perfect imperfections…

Yours truly

‘Someone out there’

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Damsel in distress

Serene environs.

Silence broken by the gushing water

falling down the rocks…

amidst green, secluded space,

stands the damsel in distress…

Unperturbed by the chaos in the vicinity,

un-amused by all the beauty at her doorsteps.

Fighting some futile tireless mind-battles,

over-stressed. Ungrateful.

Oblivious of all the gifts.


I can’t rhyme anymore

“You’re the reason I can’t rhyme anymore.”

I always keep repeating to myself that I shall not write about you, not any more. But the moment I stop writing – I have realized – I stop writing at all, once and for all and I write none.

I write about you. I write about it every now and again, and keep it deep secretly under the closet.

I can’t understand whether I am too afraid to say this all in your face. And I can’t fathom, if that insinuates my cowardice or my excellence in keeping secrets.

I have started loving similes since I created them in bulk, unheard and unsaid; and a million metaphors that end up nowhere – unseen and unread.

Similes and metaphors describing your smoggy eyes and wavy hair, memories and distance – distant memories to be precise, delusional hopes and everything else cherished and regretted.

Certain tales are better off unspoken, and unheard. Or at least our parable is the one.

You always said it out rightly from the very outset. And you jazzed around your point of view straightforwardly. And you danced around the truth so convincingly so you never have to break anything – or anyone.

But even then – you’re definitely not the one to blame – my parts and pieces feel bent and broken, at the mercy of 24/7 harsh weather in my mind, and scattered to whatever the rains and storms happen to pass. I feel like a building standing without the firm base ready to fall apart without anything holding it up.

Missing someone, they say, is self-centered. I self-center you every single second of every single day.

Every single piece of fiction is a reminder of thee and I want you to read; every second note of poetry – merry or melancholy – makes me crave to read it aloud to you, out rightly ignoring the very fact that it could pretty much be a nuisance on thy part.

So what am I left with? Build a sand castle along the shore, transcribe everything I wish over the sand, graffiti my thoughts in invisible ink on every wall around, build the virtual bridge and forget what I left underneath.

Even if it means, I am the one drowning under there in waters which are dry and lifeless enough not even capable of an absolute kill.

Anyway, all that is happening is for your good. You don’t have to watch me fall apart, and I don’t have to let you hold me together. And I am not falling apart either. So you don’t have to hold us together.

But I wish you would. Though, it’s a lot better that you aren’t. And it’s a lot better that you won’t, and very importantly for your own good.


Melancholy melody and pensive poetry

Touching notes of melancholy melody,
playing over the headset,
whisper into the ear so earnest.

Moving pieces of pensive poetry,
couplet, eulogy, sonnet, elegy,
inscribed onto the pages so pretty.

Sailing through the eye,
hover over the mind. Defy?
Piercing through the heart,
penetrate into the soul. Set apart?

Reminding of blurred images, hazy places,
elapsed memories, foggy faces.
Intimating of delusional hopes, unmade promises,
busted dreams, unfulfilled desires.

Prompting of assumed friendship, ephemeral kinship.

Touching notes of melancholy melody,
moving pieces of pensive poetry,
rejuvenate nostalgia, fuse reminiscence,
revive hopes, renew dreams.

Touching notes of melancholy melody,
moving pieces of pensive poetry,
enliven friendship, revitalize kinship.
rekindle infinite love, and companionship.


Friendship not forever lasts

On the crossroads of life,
With an affinity did friends meet.

But time betrayed in such a way,
One went this way, other went that.

A ship was there, that drowned;
Though its planks kept floating.

A flock was there, that scattered.
One went this way, other went that.

– Translated from Sindhi


And I write and erase and…

I do have to start writing about you. And I do write and erase, and write and erase and write and erase or throw it away into trash and dump it away in a quagmire of nothingness.

That’s where it all including the scribe, that matters not, belongs – an absolute oblivion and hollowness.

Before it all meets its ironic fate, I have written innumerable blogs, scores of broken poems, beautiful little stanzas, dirty half a dozen passages, cents of dreamy essays, fairy-tallish stories and spell-binding prose.

Magnificently bewitching, maddening, marvelously magical, magnetic and mesmerizing.

Self-praise may not be a recommendation in the world of sanity. But my dearest one… all that is about you, and all that is about me thinking about you, is majestic beyond bounds. And I need no judge, not at all, without any doubt.

I have to have a means of expression, for the best of intentions, in all your admiration that to you again matters not. All that I do is all I have to do and I do it for myself and nothing more.

I write and annihilate a big assembly of phrases, crush a crowd of courteous clauses and sentence to death an emotional mob of sentences, and I know what I am doing.

At least, it makes me realize where I am heading. What keeps my existence where it belongs is dumping it all away. And I know what I am doing.

Singing an invitation of insanity with the flames I find at your door, I write and erase.

The door that gets farther the closer I move while the flame gets nearer than ever. And the warmth do I savor. But I am not a moth meant to burn and blaze. And cast the flames of your door any blame.

In a losing race as the scribe would put it, the writings and scribe keep draining, dripping through the ink, streaming, flowing before eventually getting sunk, numb and lifeless.

That’s how it works; self-annihilation to be precise.

And it hurts, and it hurts, and it hurts. But still, I write and erase and I write and erase… everything that I am supposed to say… and nothing that I am supposed to say… nothing.


Shadows – not a poetry

Shadows.
Shadows are beautifully haunting images.
Images that never exist but they really are!
Lights create shadows;
More light and they perish.
Shadows are like desires let lose.
Shadows baffle just as the desires do.
They fascinate at times.
They’re some serious illusions;
Casting magic-spell over your mind and sight.
Brighter the lights, heavier the shadows.
Shift light placement and they disappear
As if they never were.
Adjust and shadows transform.
With a slightest change in positioning of the light,
Shadows lengthen, widen, overpower and/or disappear.
Shadows are, in a way, useful.
They ascertain existence.
The darker side need not threaten;
It simply means light is somewhere behind.
Closer than ever.
Shadows are not meant to be frightening.
All that is needed is to switch sides.
Pursue light rather than dark.
Face light and fight shadows.