Yours Hopefully (One’s heart is a wanderer. Nothing is permanent. Everything about it, keeps on changing ranging from the rate at which it beats to the one who resides in it. But then, our duty as its owner is to keep on moving in search of the rightmost dweller.)

Balancing itself on the delicate needle of the flame of a candle,
is my hope.
At times, am empty.
Other times, am just hopeful.
Wishing we meet.
My soldier!!
The last drop of dew in the barren desert of my heart awaits you,
with hope.
I breathe hope each second,
to keep my engine of love running,
my rivers of passion flowing for you,
only for you,
my soldier!!
My range is not a subset of your set.
I probably lie somewhere above or below it.
But then, I know our paths will meet one day,
even if you fight a different battle
in a different warzone each day.
I won’t stop moving
not before I have my footprints
beside yours.
Because the signal of your heart rejuvenates my existence;
and my heart needs its fuel.

You fight your battle on the field.
Cold corpses and widowed warfare is all you see.
That bleeding blood may be yours,
but your heart belongs to me.

I fight my own, off it.
I struggle to stand,
before being weak in the knee.
Happy is not something,
I’m destined to be.
And since,
you are the only key.
I cannot lose you,
not in my jinxed sea.
So, I give you wings,
fly, fly far away from me.

Someday, dissolved in my own delusions,
I will dig you.
From the deepest desires of my hopeful heart.
I will rush to you.
We’ll meet,
in the carefree crossroads of my dreams,
in the subtle sobs,
between my soaring screams.
We will meet my soldier,
we will hopefully meet.

The Fairytale of a book - Part 1(everyone around us a has a story, they don't shout loud, even a book.)

I was a tattered book, hidden in the corner of a hallowed library,
my pages torn.
My words faded beneath the façade of white stains.
My meanings meaningless.
My existence non-existent.
My neighbours looked the same as me,
but they were a little better, a little different.
Like two apples kept together,
same story;
yet I was the rotten one.
The one everybody throws away.

There were holes in some parts of my life.
 I had nothing to fill them with.
Some stalking stains were a see through into my history of callous users.
Soaring scars of oily mistakes made me ugly.
I was unread.
I was ugly.
I yearned to be read for days, months, years.
Each second lasted an hour.
But, nobody paused.
After all, nobody pauses to adore the ugly.

 One day, from the haughty hollows of a faded crowd came a stranger.
Of us all, she picked me.
I was waiting to be callously thrown away.
But, she possibly liked my antiquity, the rarity of the occurrence of my types in a posh place.
She fell for me. I had to fall back.
It was my duty.
She was different.
The only lift that managed to reach my tallest, abandoned floors.
She filled my voids with her own meanings.
She carefully read my fallacies, adored my flaws,
made creative curves out of my torn edges.
The momentum of my hope began gaining pace.
I liked to be read again.
My crevices felt good.
But then, every road has a speed breaker,
and so did we.

My worldly place (the world i wish to live in)

From the palette of my mind, I feel like painting everything around with my verses.
I yearn to capture the naiveté, the eccentricity, and the imperfections of this worldly place.
But, before that I’ll camouflage myself.
I will hide my presence,
mix in my palette,
dissolve with my colours,
drink them and enjoy each flavour, they bring to my soul.
My poems are the paintings I create.
But for this one, I will myself become one.
Paint this worldly place with the most exquisite colours ever found.
I will colour the sun blue,
the blue found in the deepest layers of a spirited sea and the sky green.
The same green that rests beneath a blossoming red rose.
imagine a blue blooming sun clad in gay, green clouds.
the sky will become a garden, a garden we yearn to touch.
and the sun will become a flower.
A flower we yearn to pluck.
A flower that bloomed each day and wilted each night.
A flower that everyone longed to have but wouldn’t dare to touch.
A flower whose beauty, wouldn’t lead to its own end.
That will be my flower in the garden of my imagination,
in the lap of the world I create with my verses.
My worldly place, a place where even a flower would live its own destiny,
without the fear of being smothered for wearing a short skirt.
that would be my place, my worldly place!!