To write poetry is to cut oneself,
Bleeding glorious crimson, spilling guts,
An act of violence, without a knife,
But with a violin bow,
The sweetest music, filtered from agony,
Words, uneven wounds,
Like muslin on another's soul,
Smile, won't you, while I scream,
An orgy of demons and angels,
As I trap all that bubbling inspiration,
Into pathetic, incomplete sentences,
Oh, sweet agony, this unashamed baring,
Drenched in acid, decked with flowers.

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I don't know if it's just me,
Or does it all grow on you,
Like moss on an abandoned wall,
Or creepers, wherever they will,
Even if the sun doesn't shine,
Or the clouds don't darken,
The breathing comes and goes,
The heart beats, the stomach eats,
Where is the romance, the soul asks,
Between bus stations and roadside tea,
What are the flowers for, or a bird's morning song,
What for is the smell of rain-soaked soil,
Where is the poetry, where is the flowery prose,
Between lines of steel, and boxes of drugs,
How do you live in a world meant for survival,
Could you hear the violins between counting those notes,
Sigh, life is lost, seeking existence,
Until he walks into the room, any room,
In his eyes, lies the spark that lights a fire,
On cold, dark nights, without blankets,
Without effort, he frees the ears to melody,
The hands to art, the feet to adventure,
He tip-toes into places that haven't seen light,
And draws the curtains apart,
There, there is romance, where you haven't even been looking,
In his quiet, sleepy smile, on a Sunday morning.

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I asked a passerby once...

(Read Caption)

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There's beauty in loss too,
The kind that rips your heart apart,
But also leaves life in the cracks,
Like the worms that wriggle out,
From their subterranean homes, when it rains,
Grief cajoles hidden courage into coming out of hiding,
And you wear it with pride, while the tears retreat,
The pain slowly ebbs like a tide,
The haze disappears,
You are left a little broken, mostly sewn together,
A little different from what you once were,
A little better than what you thought you ever could be.

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If you ask me about love,
I'll tell you it's not about how red the rose is,
Or how fast the heart beats,
It's not the shiny metal around your finger,
Or a picturesque, setting sun,
Is it wrong, that I've found it in when my hand naturally wanted to find his,
Or when my eyes searched for him everywhere,
When my tears flowed unabashedly, pain made its way to his face,
When a smile fluttered on his lips, I found one tugging on mine,
I've felt it when sleep evades me in his absence,
In the restlessness when he doesn't feel right,
I've found it in the mess that life creates for us sometimes,
And we find each other through the trying times,
It'll always be in the quiet of the night,
And the peaceful light of Sunday mornings,
I've found love in the everydayness of things,
I've found love where love just is.

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While She Sleeps

The sun peeps through my windows,
The curtains object with grace,
She sleeps beside me, eyes heavy with dreams,
A thousand nights, she has left her inhibitions outside,
A thousand nights, she has left love on my pillow,
Her breath has mingled with mine,
Her hands have cradled my vulnerabilities,
She has whispered sweet nothings into my ears,
While I pretended to be fast asleep,
Her affection has warmed me on cold nights,
When the thickest blankets failed,
She slumbers innocently by my side,
I can't help but watch her,
Was it love when I first laid my eyes on her,
Or is it now while she sleeps?

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Life is about change.

(More in caption)

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Grief orphaned my words,
I clung to love for dear life,
Darkness tried to claim my soul,
But his light vanquished my woes,
Nothing escapes a poet's heart,
Her pen bears all the burdens,
But some wounds never really heal,
And nothing grows from those scars,
I take this pain to his waiting arms,
His battered heart doesn't shy away,
And thus, in sadness, the poet meets her muse,
To climb slowly to where there's joy.

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I know, Time, I lose to you every day,
I see you in the wrinkles around my father's eyes,
I see you where the light in my mother's eyes once used to shine,
You slyly empty spaces where the trees of my childhood once flourished,
The shadows have grown larger, the sky seems smaller,
I stand before you, quite helpless,
I hold his hand a moment longer,
You slip away like sand, like water,
Leaving nothing where something once thrived,
Oh, the cruelty of it all, the poetic cruelty,
Nothing escapes you, nothing survives you,
But you, you live, without heart, without soul,
You live, even when life ceases.

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Why do I love you so?
The reasons I could never count,
For the roots of it grow
In a place that's hidden to the world,
Language couldn't contain the words
Nor could my eyes show,
Why do I love you so?
It begins with a quiet longing
To see you smile without sadness,
It flows where you hurt the most,
Where your wounds still fester unseen,
It erupts suddenly when a memory lights up in your eyes,
It wells up slowly when you sleep and peace finally finds you,
Why do I love you so?
Nay, no answer could fill its depths,
How much more could I love you?
Infinitely, indefinitely, indelibly.

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