Monday, July 27, 2015

Not Just The Former President


In a time when all causes felt lost,
He was a beacon of inspiration.
A fire, a powehouse, a man with a mission,
A man with a vision, a man of action.
He was a father to millions,
A dependable, reliable personality.
A workaholic, a role model, a man of research,
A man who'd always stick to his word.
Innovative and creative, he was the perfect leader,
Frail, yet bursting with energy,
He was a man of humility.
A man, who deserved immortality.

RIP APJ Abdul Kalam. You'll always be remembered.

Sunday, July 26, 2015

Woolgathering

It's like we're running endlessly.
Moving across a loop, moving,
But getting nowhere.
Wondering out aloud, chit-chatting with our conscience,
Talking, yet not speaking, breathlessly.
Hearing but not listening,
Connected to reality, but oh so vaguely.
Chasing after thoughts, rambling
Through the meadows of our ideas,
Living in our own mind,
In a world of our own making.
Thinking, but not registering, endlessly
Moving, just moving,
On a path called nothing,
To a place called nowhere.
Perhaps, we're just woolgathering.

Mother

Her hands caress,
Her hands soothe,
Her hands heal,
Every wound.
Her hands guide,
Her hands fight
Every battle of mine.
Her hands shape,
Her hands mold,
Her hands hold me close.
her hands have calluses,
Yet they are soft.
Her hands are ever so gentle,
As they help me grow.

Monday, July 13, 2015

When my heart takes the pen.

Biting my lips, I try scribbling furiously,
Searching, seeking, the right words.
Emotions weigh me down, but not my pen.
It finds no words to write.
Tearing yet another sheet,
I scramble towards the next in the pile,
I see blankness again.
No words, this time either.
Slowly, I let my pen drop,
And hide my face within my cupped hands.
Defeated.
The paper conquers over the writer.
I look up when the numbness in my body 
Overwhelms me.
Another cold night without fire.
And yet I waste these pages, with words
Unwritten, untold.
It's as if the paper taunts me, 
So I pick the pen up again,
Grimace, at the blot of ink, now adorning the carpet.
The page before me stares rudely,
In answer, I stare back.
For a second, only.
I assault the paper this time.
Hours later, I finally eye the rectangular sheet,
And marvel, for I won this time.
I understand now,
The page remains wordless when I search my head,
But words flow freely,
When my heart takes the pen.

A Fire

A spark, it fascinated me,
Zest -the zest for something bigger,
Burnt within it.
It was a start, a beginning.
A prologue to something brighter.
A flame.
It intrigued me. It was a rebel,
From crimson hues to deep blues,
It burnt. It enveloped. It grew.
But something changed.
It consumed now,
It hissed and it spat,
It devastated.
It became something worse. Fire.
It burnt me. Within.