Bottled Up Thoughts

  The girl who loves you admires roses a little more than your morning face. The girl who loves you, shoots questions bluntly, about triggers, trips and trees; to your friend lists and favourite sweets.  She adores the way you spark a smile, soon after you see her.   The girl who loves you, adorns a puppy face, -all cutesy, to get you sing a song; or skip a sour pill or two when sick. This girl sing songs, writes poetry, and asks too many questions bluntly, when she misses you the most.   Her love for you, is daunting, yet comforting; like the added layer of chocolate chips on Vanilla ice-cream; Like the first sip of coffee on a lazy morning. You for her, feel like home, all warm and cozy. You for her, is someone worthy of all good things of the universe.                                    ...

 Two quarters past 5, We sit there, watch the sky lay a saffron lilac spread, As if setting the sun asleep After a long day. Slowly as things unfold, Like some layers of insecurities And of love; You felt like the courtyard Of some old fort, With such high walls None could ever break into. /Time lapse/ A quarter past 8, We walk by the footpath as our shadows follow, Like it's just you and me  in this whole world. One of the stars falls by And we watch it still. We talk of the silliest, of the adorable springs, And of the lush green plants. Of failing a subject or two, And of lives and death. /Time lapse/ It's three quarters past 9, Another star goes down. This time I see it, I make a wish To always stick by you, thru your thick and thins. Stick by you like the Ursa major  and it's seven stars, that we spot each day. To stay constant in your sky Blooming white daisies  and greeny plants, All year long. -J.

My thoughts have yet again slipped away, sliding through the spaces of my fingers staining poetry across the sheets. Another night's gone, and oh, I wonder: Have the words fallen  or made 'em all fall? My poems make soft love, floating gently across the pauses of yours breaths, and the spaces in your curves.  On chilled nights, they're the winds binding you closer  to the shrugs of actuality. On the sober midnights, they're the drunk dials to past loves, taking guilt trips to confessions: buried deep under forbidden sins. On pleasant evenings, they're the last sip of tea that you wished lasted a little longer, They're satisfying urges and your day-dream fantasies. Like the sky shedding its shades, my poems shift shelters: seeking homes in people or seeking people in homes. Wanderers as they are, have yet again slipped away. -J.

Sorrow has never been a home's own. While the world's busy accusing it of its crimes: deaths and despair. On one dreary day, it would certainly walk into your open doors with no knocks. Then, Let it not slide in through the tiny cracks, then break your walls; slowly first and all at once. While you permit it to pass in freely give place to sit, with ease. Ask it who it is or how was its day, And how long it wants to stay. Like the gold polished medals  put in the display, duely embrace its presence. They're both pointers of your patience, unfolding tales of how you've survived strong till the very end of the race. Seal it not behind the lockers of your anxieties, Let it out in the open spaces, Let it free. Long walks, or bed time talks with your gooey guest, are okay. Never to be forgotten: Time lapses, and sooner than you think Sorrow would have left your home; Left you. A guest was all it has ever been, was never meant to stay. Over and over again, Sorrow shifts shelt...