Smoke

When late at night, 

this city temporarily dies, 

I start feeling, fearing,

the emptiness outside,

or is it inside, 

its eeriness, ominous silence,

broken by my heavy breaths and risen pulse rate, 

makes me wave my hand, over my hair, 

and thump my heart, 

trying to calm, 

failing at which, 

I take a puff. 

Fill my lungs, 

with dirt and dust, 

and exhale the emptiness within, 

that I fear and hide,  

from this public wild, 

that makes me silent within. 

I let myself, numb for a while, 

try to die, for limited time,  

give my soul, rest for a while,

to face the screams within. 

I fear this world, where freedom is mine, 

but slave I am, and so is every child, 

and Its not a crime.

Its a condition,  

without any opposition, 

Its a situation, 

and we are its slave. 

Slave of responsibilities, 

of someone else's dreams,  

of the boss, and colleague, 

of the devil that hides, 

behind the mask of joy, 

makes me crave for money,  

more than I enjoy. 

Slave of lust, passion, distrust, 

and this addiction of taking a puff

But till the time I decide,  

to beak these chains, 

to try, cigarettes numb my mind, 

deceives me to rise, 

like gases high in sky, 

ignore my burning soul,  

that emptiness making it sore. 

And I sleep,

with that peacefulness, temporary, 

to wake up again tomorrow, 

speak like a snake, 

and act like brave, 

intoxicate the world, 

and cheat them with peace, 

just like that cigarette, 

burning my body, 

to rise like gases, 

and removing my soul like the ashes 

till the body rots and die, and the soul escapes life.

The Puzzle Maker

Daily recollections

Walking alone towards home

I ponder over my destiny.

Each day as I return from work

It seems as though the setting sun

Wants my daily progress report

And sinks in disappointment

Seeing meagre achievements.

Walking under the amber lights

I look at fellow humans

In a rush to reach home themselves

Or perhaps to reach their workplace, I know not.

For some, the road is their workplace;

Their sullen faces betraying disappointment,

Frustration and monotony.

Some others however, as they amble past,

Seem to be from another realm,

Families of four, crowds of three, groups of two.

They appear rich, in wealth and in love;

Their sight compounds my frustrations

And convinced that I am a lone warrior

I trod along with heavier footsteps,

Feeling emptier than before.

As I open the door to my home

My mother receives with a smile

Glad that I came back

For every day is a struggle.

In the warmth of my home

I realize a great fool I was

To have deemed myself miserable.

I am but as wealthy as any other,

My bastion of love filled 

And with definitely more occupants to come.

But bastions don't move with the warrior, do they?

I go off to sleep

With my blade of hope resharpened.

The next day cynicism shall blunt it again

And the setting sun shall still remain unimpressed. 

Call

It called me, 
those energy waves, flowing,
one over another,
pushing me from behind,
wetting my soul, 
or pouring its pain, it called me. 
I felt its murmur,
its ability to take sand beneath my legs;attracts me
I wish to be sand, 
to be controlled by you,
to let myself free,
and feel your power, 
to be a part of you.
I don't know whether its your call or is it mine, 
I just know that some part of me
feels that I am a part of you, 
or your thrown child.
That once again has found you,
and wants to go back to your womb, 
feel your control,
your movements, your energy,
and move sometimes, to show my presence. 
I want to hide in that darkness, 
but still reflect light,
of sun and of moon, 
like you do,
not without distorting it,
with tides and waves,
but shine, shimmer, and take pride.
Is that your call, 
or is it mine, 
do you want to take control,  
or I want to lose it,and flow, 
throughout the world,
touch every shore, and every bank,  
and people around with my style, attract them, 
and make them smile,
when they see me reflecting the red sun, 
or moon and stars, 
or when they just want to be consumed by you, 
like I do, I want flow like a smile,
I want to flow like you do, 
I want to be a part of you.  

Ocean's call  
The Puzzle Maker

Nostalgia

Not so long ago,

Little things meant a lot.

Walking across the room,

Climbing a step of a flight of stairs,

Were big achievements.

As a few years passed by

I walked way more than a few steps,

But never alone.

With time I started to go solo

But never beyond the great bridge that separated the twin cities;

Crossing it for a family trip was always a thrill.

Coming to the present,

A journey across that great bridge is a routine affair, almost mundane.

I look at myself

And see that I have grown;

Far different from that little boy

Who walked a few steps to his mother's delight.

I now have strength to stand alone,

To traverse the greatest journey

With the goodwill, not the aid of anyone.

But every now and then,

I yearn for  those big thrills at doing small things

Until I realize with a sigh,

That age nor experience shall allow it anymore.

Writer's Love

Oh he will rhyme you by his pen, Be it your hair or face, it will be a gem, Your aroma will be his coffee, your smile will he dope in every page. You will be his ink that he will stain on every heart, 
with his words will he describe you like an immortal piece of art.

Your sound will be his music, your words lyrics,
your movement will be beats, making his heart dance every morning.
Beautiful you will be in those minds that read his pen,
for your love will make him better without itch and pain.
You might leave him someday, when things might not work so well.
He would then write you with blood, 
imprinting every page with his scars and pain, 
darkness with him or demons within will find a role to play.
Be it a storm, or rain, birds or brain everything will remind him about you 
and this way he while describing these will he still describe you. 
Moonlight will be your face, tides will become hairs, 
this way the world will see the unknown beauty nature presents. 
Be it destruction or birth, or a grave within earth, 
be it a storm or breeze or rustling of leaves, 
murmur of water or ominous forest cries, 
everything will remind him about your light and that shine,
your expressive eyes, peace within, 
your kiss erupting like a volcano, living within,
his loss sight and mute ears dumb tongue and numb brain, 
but a beating heart that still hopes to get in tune with yours again. 
A look of your eyes can make him work again, 
but till then with metaphors hiding his pain
and making you immortal in million hearts will he write
poetry and songs on nature or about you,
his love for you won’t let you die, true is it not that writers love never die....:)

The Puzzle Maker

Touch of Love

A room devoid of light,

Somewhere inside the beating heart.

 A mystery unknown that mind,

That sometimes goes numb and dark.

 A face devoid of expression,

Somewhere fearing the movement of muscle.

A life stands so surprised,

That it lets go consciousness for a while.

A moment more precious than life,

 That strips the soul naked without force.

 Like A rose that touched the warrior,

 Made him leave his arms and become the saviour.

And a soul touched with love,

Finds untraceable light inside that room of heart,

Alone at start, empty and dark,

Finds someone to light the way along.