It Can Be Tough

it can be tough, 
for words to tumble out 
of a writer's mind onto a blank page, 

and make sense beyond the writer's

petty obsession with mere words 

the right words sometimes 

get stuck in between writing 

and thinking about writing, 

and often, gleaming words, 

spring out of the mind, 

when it is impossible to write 

like when showring or eating 

or making out with a woman 

the writer does not like 

it can be tough, 

a writer's life, 

for one moment one is writing 

but once done, the void 

deepens 

as the next poem or story 

beckons 

Loosen Up

don't let your goals make you insufferable, 
loosen up once in a while, 
and let hours roll by, 
without you having to endure 
the thoughts failure 

let lose once in a while 
it is not crime to miss a goal or two
or three....or six 
you wouldn't die 

loosen up and be alive 
let go of burdens of guilt 
be free like the air 
recharge and get back the goals 
like a thousand hungry lions 

Never Been The Best

I have always thought, 

even without proof, 

that I was the best at what 

I do 

but school happened, 

and I realised I was no better 

than some 

as I strived to keep up with the 

best, 

the best seemed to get better 

I slackened, see-sawed 

and swung like a pendulum 

between best and the worst, 

and the guilt still haunts me 

for I believed if I tried harder, 

I wouldn't be where I am now 

and nothing haunts more than 

the thought that if I tried harder, 

my path would have been different 

Ruminating

find me at my usual corner 

drinking the same drink, 

ruminating, 

dreaming about better days, 

trying to outrun my troubles, 

and my haunting past. 

find me by lonely rock 

day dreaming about better days, 

days when everything will be alright 

find me, still, 

ruminating over good days 

that I should be living now 

Vestiges of Affection

the last vestiges of feelings 
still haunt certain parts of my heart
that have not gone dark, or cold
there is still a gossamer of hope 
that I still hold on to whenever
the memory of you, the memory us, 
strikes at odd hours 
when magnetic pull of loneliness 
is stronger than before
when the wails of my heart are loud, 
my feet struggle to take me a further step, 
just one step away from those days 
days littered with memories, 
with love, 
with a thousand eternities 
that we hoped we would mold 
with our bare hands, 
and then I miss you 
and then I call you 
and then your distant voice sounds cold 
and then I regret why I called 

I Wish I Were A Tree

I wish I were a tree 
A eucalyptus tree with a long smooth back
I'd stand inconspicuously among other tall trees with smooth barks.
I'd have grand eucalyptus thoughts, days and nights while
I stretch painstakingly slowly towards the sky
I'd think, for example, that I'd grow up to be a piece of paper
where I'll land on the table of a genius poet
Or his printer.
Or his collection of eerie thoughts conjured up in wee hours of night.
If the poet is a woman, then I'd be content to be her tissue paper,
a tissue paper with a long and smooth bark 

No More Nightmares

the nights are no longer long 
the ticking clock no longer drawls 
I ceased wondering 
about where I went wrong 

time is nigh, I feel it, 
energy gushes out of me 
like a burst water pipe 
I am no longer full of shit 

there are no more nightmares 
the past seems long gone, 
and a gleaming future awaits me 
step by step, I climb up the stares