The third one.

Once upon a time 

There were three kids. 

None of them really wished for being someone amazingly wealthy.

Almost as if they were enlightened. 

Almost as if they hadn't come down to your level to be risen.

The way they were and they way they had been was so comfortable. 

They experienced their mother's womb in their living state. 

What job do you have in your mother's womb? 

What debts? 

What relationships are you thinking of? 

What comfort do you wish for? 

Which drink would like in there? 

What gravity could pull you down? 

What guilt could you feel for being who you are? 

Which friends did you wish to meet in there? 

What expectations did you have in there? 

What dreams did you manifest? 

Were you even happy? 

Or sad? 

Or reluctant? 

What abuses did you learn? 

What languages did you have to communicate in? 

What was death to you in there? 

What was life instead but being? 

What questions did you look for? 

They just didn't know what to do. 

There was nothing to do except... accept. 

'Kill everything' one said.

'Cowards' said the other.

The third one kept quiet. 

Posing Indifference

We hadn't even looked at each other. I had seen her hands in my dreams once. Her perfect set of hands held a cigarette in one. I felt like offering a joint. I was afraid to look at her face though. Self doubt has it's own trip. I thought I was ill once, falling for what others hadn't recognized as beauty; little did I know I was gifted.

I hesitated before looking at her. She looked like a moonlit candle. I saw the fire lit inside her through her eyes. I did not want to freeze that moment in time because I was familiar with the pleasure of ending things. I let it be. I knew I wasn't even going to regret not trying. jungles look beautiful until you start living in them. in between the excitement for taking the first step and reciting my past with her, there was a bridge of insecurities and fears.

I let that moment end without being noticed. It was a beautiful moment in time.

Stubbed Buds.

There are
Six senses
We always forget to count ourselves in
Gods don't live without disciples
Butterflies are not pretty without our eyes
It's not hot until you've felt it
Its not wrong until you've realised
Something known can only come from the unknown
Real comes in from the dreams
In between all of this lies our perception
At the other end is reality
Opposites
No wonder they are attracted to each other
No wonder they are in love
And no wonder they keep fighting over small things.

The Yellow Colored Crazy

She didn't know if she was going crazy. That question wasn't important at the moment. She had thoughts that gave her shivers throughout the day. Real shivers, visible shivers. That sensation between the brows kept flickering in terms of intensity day by day. At times she wasn't she. Not even human. It didn't matter what she wore, or what her skin was made of. She only knew waves of sensation that kept telling her she was alive. She couldn't just depend on what she saw or felt. others said they were dreams. When she slept, she felt dead; we create our own dreams and for that one needs to be alive, not one but something.

'Why not our comfortable madness become our religion rather than someone else's as your guiding path for life?' she often thought.

Connecting Dots

Connecting dots
All the way
Like stars
And their constellations
So far away
Floating here
Floating there
What's the need?
Who cares?
But they float
They exist
In spots
Where
They had to be
A connecting wave
Dreamy dust
Sparkles
Glowing winds
Picture it however
Doesnt matter
It's still there
You cant question why
And they will be
Where they stay
Guiding people
Gone astray
But what if
They questioned why
What they do
in this unknown sky
North star guides
The happy
The sad
The miserable
The rich
The poor
The needy
The greedy
The 'wrong'
The 'right'
Towards
Where
They want to be

I wonder why
The first guy
Felt like
Following
A star
In the
Night sky.

The Balcony

He stood
In the balcony
Up in the
Mountains
Staring through
The blurred air
Through
The fountains
Stilled in time
And in
Its own sequence
Floating
Enacting stories
For wanderers
Colours
And shades
Of all trades
Limited
To
Black and white
Within
The minds
Of me and you
Stories
Of lust and power
Over love and hope
And he stands there
Still
Waiting for
The happy ending

He has
Found the string
Between
The undone
The un-experienced
The unknown
With happenings
Of daily life
On which he
Tries
To balance
Because trying
Is so comfortable.

Poetess of love

I hover
Upon her
Skin
With my
Fingers
Free
From our history
Our future
Right
On her
Spine

She belonged
Only
To herself
And I
Was
Because
My fingers
Couldn't
Penetrate
Much
Of her insight
Much of her
Mind that
Made her
Smile
In its absence
When she
Wasn't
Just
A bottle
Of water
From the sea
But emptied
Back in it
To infinity

But for
That brief
Moment
In time
When we
Munched
Upon smiles
And each other's
Skin
And its fragrance
And its existence
And its manifestation
On our will
Her eye lids
Her mascara
Her plain white
T's
Her toes
Seemed a miracle
And a gesture
Of blessing
From the gods
Within

Her taste
Was of fruits
Unknown
Fruits from
The tree
Of love
Berry like
Wild berries
Lucid
Pretty
Intoxicating
Vulnerable
Delicate
Limited
To herself
One of a kind

Her body
Spoke
Poetry
Through
The way
It explored
Me
Imagine
An island
Exploring
You
And
If you had the right
Eye you could
Even read her
Through
She was
A poetess
Of love.