Darkness and I have a thing.
We both want to hide,
where the light can’t reach.

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I either live or write.
I can’t do both.
Both are something
I have to first create
in my mind.

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It’s there in the leaves,
In your eyes,
In the turquoise bracelet that you wear,
And the color of my love for you.

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Funny, that I can write about love and life
even when my windows are shut and
the room air is slowly dying.

But, I guess that’s what love does
to a life that wishes to live
even when death feels more easy to reach.

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Rage comes in all forms.
Sometimes, it’s a poem waiting to be read.
Sometimes, a poem waiting to be written.
Sometimes, a poet who does both and still
deny himself of poetry.

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I wish to be the moon to the stars in your eyes.

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but it felt more like a window.

I saw the beautiful world outside
while I looked through it,
I saw people hand in hand,
smiling eye to eye.

But for me, it was just a view.
Something to look at and never
to be walked through.

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This darkness was actually never in front of me.
It was there in the back of my mind, laughing
as I walked in the daylight and I grew
cautious of another sudden tumble
while I made sure the torch is still in my backpack.

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Being alive is writing for hours only to save it as a draft.
Living is visiting that draft, editing, and finally posting it.
Either way you're stuck with a shelf,
that collects drafts and not just dusts.

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It waits in queue and doesn't budge when its turn is over.

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