Pens and Pages

The star that burned Into ashes today Was once the star Of his mother's death. And the same ball of fire, She had seen When he was born, She'd made a wish. And now that you pick The stardust lying On the cold hard ground, You call it special, You call it lucky. But he picks the same And calls it dirt. So, what's its name, In this ephemeral world, Where identity changes And names don't last?

On some nights When no one else is awake She sits on my chest. She walks in and out of the door Till I recognize her face. And when he falls asleep In my arms, She gently cuts his throat And lets him bleed till dawn. She is named As she should be - The ugliness of glee. And the corpse That lie beside me now Was no one but a memory...

I was just going through my diary to find out what happened the same time last year. Here's what I found worth sharing. Food for thought for me. What about you? * "It doesn't seem like you're living a life, it's almost like you're travelling on a train with a destination unknown. You're sitting on a seat near the window looking outside, imagining how things are there outside, how is it like to live in the houses that you pass by. And when you’re busy noticing the outside, you at times do not pay heed to your surroundings inside the coach. And thus some passengers who got down at a station midway fail to capture your interest, or maybe it is because of your deviation of interest towards the outside. While at other stops new people get up, and you like their company, you share and you laugh. But sooner or later they get down. Because it's your journey, you're the traveler and they just accompany you for some distances. An...

I tried to save him From the demon I knew I'd be. He came a little closer, Claiming his love for me. But all the men Who've ever loved me Have loved but only For a short time of Spring. Now in the middle of this storm When he still hasn't left, I wonder if he's real If he isn't a daydream. For I've heard of men like him But never really seen one. I've met men like him before But only In my poem.

She rewrites history, Everyday, She says. I see lies. And when he smiles, And claims he is fine. I see lies. More lies. And when I look at you, And you make me feel good I see you through, I read your book. I see lies. More lies. All lies. Yesterday, When you said Things will be alright. I knew at an instant, That feeling, That vibe. You're going To lie, again. Shackles of lies, In everything I say. And when I write Our story today, I see lies, I see them, everywhere.

Who is she, That ugly old woman? She says she grew up Facing the vagaries of life. Oh, didn't I do the same? I would tell her Had she not been so vain. I looked at her eyes, Puffed up as if she just cried. I've spent sleepless nights crying, I could tell her, Had she been my friend. Who is she, That woman who looks nothing like me? She is dressed up in black, Mourning the death of someone akin. Haven't I mourned deaths? I have mourned them Till there were no tears left. I would let her know But she seemed tearless herself. Who is she, The lady I couldn't like? She runs her fingers Through her long grey hair And sings songs of despair. 'Who are you?' I asked her, at last. The answer I couldn't bear As I kept looking At the image in the mirror.