I am writing this to talk to you –

but lets not talk about our feelings,

I am writing this to you.

I am writing this to you.

lets not talk, too, about anything else.

Look at the things, between us it demeans.

I don’t think this talk will ever end by any means.

Only, tell me do I light you right up?

As always, just an yes or no, is enough.


I am writing this to confess it to you –

that I would tell I love you,

if you promise that you would stay.

I would say sorry to you,

if you promise me that you won’t go away.

I would do almost do anything,

but promise that, like an ivy, you would cling.


I am writing this to explain it to you –

that our tastes may be worlds apart,

but I hold you close to my heart.

I understand, now for you, the times are dark,

but so, do you have to go after the star?

The star still will sing and shine,

but i will lose the twinkle, which is mine.


I am writing this to speak out to you –

the things bouncing in my head.

But let that remain unsaid.

You tell me the rough stuff in your head.

Come on, let everything shed.

Am I so hard to carry on with?

Am I the piece in the jigsaw which won’t fit?


I am writing this to admit it to you –

that you loved me your heart out.

now I will try to stay out.

Take your time, take the rest out.

You wonder, oh, now what?

And the changes that comes about?

That you will see me only as a distant blurred spot.


I am writing this to myself –

Though soon,sigh, give up, time to rest is now.

The one thing you can’t demand is love.

Love, you have should die,

but only on the day, rest in peace, you lie.

Give her the shoulders to lean and cry forever

and don’t attempt to write like this, ever.


Aside  —  Posted: April 22, 2012 in Verses
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Posted: September 18, 2010 in Diary
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Bengaluru, Wednesday, 28 July 2010,

The day is short. You will never realize the time tick if you preoccupy yourself with some kind of an activity. Sleeping is a good enough activity. I slept through the short day.

Light is making way for the darkness to encroach.

It was raining when I woke up. Every time I will have to wake up with the old, dirty and a supposed-to-be white but now a European style closet with ordure undertone with constant exploitation, opposite to my bed, for the view. The color of room matches my mood – dull, blue. Plaster has come off the walls, ceilings and mosaic from the floor. The room always has this sulky smell of sweat from the bed, which god only knows how many men have slept and have accomplished what else on it, but I gave it a new look with a new bedspread I bought yesterday after a weary three hours bargaining through the R.T. Nagar market.

The squeak of the table fan too fills the air in the room along with my sorrow thoughts.

My room number is 6, so is the time right now. The room is on the fourth floor, on the corner – so I enjoy the privilege of having windows on two walls. The other two walls – one holds the entrance door, made of plywood, adjacent to which is my bed which has a shy fourth leg thus making it to respond with a knock against the floor to all my kinematics on the bed, I hardly moved; the tiled bath is attached to the second.

Room is too small for me and my musings that I am suffocating.

One of the never opened windows shows the aerial view of the graveyard bordering my hostel building, but the other overlooks the busy R.T. Nagar Main Road. I unlatch the latter. Melodious music with unrecognizable kannada lyrics paints picture of the background of my mood.

Like the rain drops on the edge of the shade near my window, tear drops trickle down my cheeks and tremble at the edge of my jaws.

On the other side of the road, I can see through the leaves of the mango tree, is a man on the ladder with a can of paint, giving touches in red for an AIRTEL sign board. What will happen if the ladder slips? He like a snapped mango of this mango tree or a rain drop of this rain will come down, spilling both paint and blood making it hard to tell which is which.

Yesterday, I set out to explore Bengaluru, with a map for navigation. At some point of time I happened to walk through a rundown section of the city. Awed at the sight of a girl in her early teens I could easily tell, not more than sixteen, but with a belly. Shame. Babies having babies. Nobody even cared if she went out to have a school of kids. Who to tell and who to blame? Men sleep on the granites at night in the grave adjoining my hostel, which has fifteen rooms on each of its four floors. Where to go to and where else to sleep?

I have to give a break to my negative and cruel thoughts.

Just as I think, I feel my problems diminish in proportion when I send thoughts to the less fortunate. Problems we deal are tagged with the lavishness of our life while on the other side of the same coin are these people who have nothing, who sleep on gravestone, who live for the sake of being born. When I yearn for a momentous tomorrow, they push every dark night hoping for a brighter day tomorrow