Then suddenly it hit her,
The gushing blow she felt, cruel power,
Her heart shattered all over again;
How can she let this happen?
How can she forget her heart was too fragile?

The pain she could no longer bear,
She drowned herself in her own tears,
She lost herself in her own painful scream,
She couldn't recognize nightmare from a dream;
Nor could she recognize what pain was any more,

With all the grave scars, she bore.
There She was lying on the cold floor,
With broken heart, love became just another folklore;
The pain lingered long after her tears had dried,
Her fiery sunny soul had grudgingly died,
With broken shards of her heart and her painful moan,
In the depths of darkness, she was again, left alone.


My Reason

Sometimes when I am too tired of missing you, 
Yet I long for your presence, I ask myself:
"Do you miss me like I do?
Are you going through what I am going through?
Or has it become easier for you to forget me?"
 I have no clue.
Do you have the answers to make my heartache a bit less?
I guess, you are the reason for my happiness and the reason for my pain!


The Skater Boy

They call me Skater boy,
But these wheels on this board are anything but a toy;
You see, I was born without legs,
Thrown into a city like a thoughtless garbage.

I finally found my way to move around,
Through this skate, forever bound;
I have these wheels for feet,
Trying to make my ends meet;
These wheels take me places,
Though I wish to walk for once, maybe not for ages;
Oh, how I wish to run,
Being able to walk, now wouldn't that be fun?

I move among the big vehicles,
Hoping not to get run over like those bloody dogs;
When I see you walk and run,
My heart cries for my legs, long gone;
Why was I born this way?
Was I born this way just to end up begging all day? 
I am seen by the weary dogs of the street,
And yet, I am invisible to the ones who could help me.

Nobody knows my story,
Nobody knows I exist, such is human glory;
If you ever come across me,
Try to talk to me and make me believe again in humanity.

I roll on and disappear among the blind crowd,
Above me hangs despicable cloud,
Maybe I don't exist to you,
Here I am living, among the few;
But these wheels give me a feeling of existence;
Existence of a Skater boy, life's cruel essence!


The Harsh Cold Night

The harsh cold night crawls in,
Dragging behind the lazy fog, an old man's gin; 
The stars are blinded by,
Nowhere to see, Nowhere to sigh.

An age-old tree surrenders without a fight,
For it knows well than to mock the night;
The rivers, the lakes and the oceans are as still as silence,
For they know the blinded stars make a cruel sense.

The flickering fire in a molded wood,
The cozy warmth in tattered gloves of wool,
Stares with burning fear,
As the cold dark night draws near.

The night swallows the land of green,
Spreading unnatural fear with such keen;
A mother and a father hugs their children,
Fighting fear and gruesome cold of the grim night,
Oh, but in vain!
As the Death grieves in their name. 
#February 21, 2016

The Great Old Oak Tree

The Great Old Oak Tree was kind,
Towards her feathery tenants that could fly,
Furry tenants that could hide,
Two legged-tenants that under her shed, would confide.

The Great Old Oak Tree was as strong,
As the promise made by a little girl in her song,
As the brave warrior who fought the wrong,
As the crazy lovers who loved each other for so long. 

The Great Old Oak tree was everything,
A place of prairie for lovers to sing,
A cozy home for calm creatures who'd bring,
Happiness and a world full of serene.
-5th March 2016

Stranger of the Street

Weary hand, a tired open palm,
Dusty lines that show the age without happiness or calm;
A torn-out cloth wrapped around a nimble body,
Rotting away alone in a busy crowded city.

Soulless eyes, hopeless and strange,
And yet she stretches her weak hand for some change;
Naked feet, cut marks from stones and sharp glasses where her blood flows like a melodious funeral song,
Holds her strong enough but alas! not for long,
We all know her as the Stranger of the street.

She was once a daughter,
A sister, maybe even a Mother;
Now here she lies among the sick animals who are forced to eat garbage when in hunger,
No one to call a family,
Nowhere to call a home, this is where she will always be;
Barely breathing, barely surviving...
The stranger of the street.

Hunger and thirst are her only company,
Dust and prayers are her visitors that fills her lips but not her hunger;
You have seen her shadowed in the streets of the rich;
Seen by everyone but felt by none, decaying in the ditch.
And yet you keep walking,
You keep ignoring;
Thanking the unknown God, that it's not you that's rotting away slowly,
Thanking the unknown God that you are not the Stranger of the street.

Her life story is being erased,
As the noise and loneliness keeps her caged;
But there she lies, among the forgotten, among the helpless, among the broken, among the living dead, 
Every single day, 
Until she becomes the part of the grotesque street dust,
Until the street and she becomes one, 
A stranger seen by everyone, felt by none, forever lost,
The street yet again prepares to welcome another stranger!


The Boy Who Could Not Cry

The bombs, the cries, the blood, the horrors,
Have become his daily life,
The happiness, the playground, the school, the warm hug of his mother and father,
Is a dream long gone, never to be returned.

Five years old,
His whole life has seen no warmth but cruel warlord's heart that is so cold,
Five years old,
 He already has fame, a fame not of happiness and wealth,
But a fame, that is pooled with bombs and blood and bereavement,
Five years old,
He hasn't seen the world and yet, has seen the darkest and most cruel horrors of the world.

No tears in his eyes,
Not a single word is uttered, except for his parents' cries,
He feels his wet bloody cheek,
Looking at it, he reacts to nothing,
He rubs the blood out on his chair,
Still, silent like a soulless statue that is dusted out of care.

Sweet candy, nutty biscuit, soft and warm clothes, clean water,
Are the things that are out of his reach,
While the evil, powerful and the rich are ever so ready,
To squeeze the blood out of this kid and the many,
To crush their whatever left strength,
To destroy their hope to many lengths,
To survive now means to have a death sentence.

Is this what it means to be alive,
In a so-called "Modern" world,
Where modern weaponry is taking life,
And creating scenery of death and painful cries. 

One has to die one day or the other,
But, killing innocents in the name of nation, is a ruthless murder.
As the sounds and scene of bombs with death sentence, fly,
In front of you is the Boy who did not cry,
Nay, it is the Boy who could not cry.