The gaudy debauchery
Of this world
Fails to recapture my soul;
For, I’m at the threshold
Of a most alluring sanctuary
Where saints and sinners, both,
Have been known
To finally discover Home.


Ironic Connections

We cry,
Not for those
Who wrong us;
But for those
Who love us.

We smile,
Not for those
Who know us;
But for those
Who think
They actually do.

Ah! The irony
Of this circuitous,
Risible life.



When you do something,
Execute it with all you’ve got;
Transcend all your boundaries.
For, every masterpiece
Requires utmost dedication
And unrelenting hardwork–
And zero telorance
For complaint.



Loudness doesn’t mean truthfulness
Nor does it even signify a big brain;
Silence may sometimes scream depth
Or it may simply whisper zilch.

Ah! My dearest,
Not everything is what it seems.



Not unlike the wind
That blows and hums and screams–
That’s what you are to me.

Not unlike the wave
That comes and goes and drifts–
Near and then away, you seem.

Not unlike the fire
That churns and burns and eats–
That’s what you do to me.

Not unlike the earth
That turns and buries and bleeds–
Wasted and used up, like this.



Sixty painful minutes
Afore shutdown
And I’m still scanning
The pages for your face;
Sixty useless sighs–
Sixty priceless smiles;
A few more seconds
To wander and to hope;
Though, it’s after five
In the morning
And you’re still a mirage
Far, far away.
I finally opt
To ride the waiting bus
And leave
The gaping presence
Of shame;
Then, I hear you
Screaming my name.


Secret Agony

Stitches down your sides;
A stash of provocative wishes,
Crushed by your hand.
A desire to speak–
A yearning so loud to utter
What you have in mind;
Although, no one wants
To listen to your crimes–
A ridiculous waste of time.
Though, you can’t cease
The insistent bleeding;
Shivers creep up your spine;
A lyre wails in the background.