Sunday, March 16, 2014

I am ...

Dear One, you are so weary!
There are creases on your otherwise firm eyebrows.
Come, gaze into my eyes
I might be the woman you want to look at.
But dear One, wait! Before you think
I am the woman with whom you want to be, and
before you want to drown yourself
into the depth of my eyes,
Realize, I am no metaphor, nor a muse,
neither a promise;
Look at my hands, a bit soiled and
 the tired lines below my eyes;
find the bruises and the blisters on my feet,
my smile, inside which you want to hide your trouble
 is not a poem, not a sonnet
but a courage that tells the world to bring on the grunge!
I might be the woman you want to touch
dear One,
but understand, I am neither a prize nor a grub,
not even an apology, not your excuse;
recognize that you make love to the
skin and bones that might have dirt on it. 
You make love to hair, nerves, veins, sweat and tears.
If I am who you wish to love, dear One,
Let me be human just as you,
share my best and the worst
take every single line of my sunshine and my eclipse
Let me create a universe for myself, for you, for all
Let me build the world as I wish to.
Don’t forget that
I am born to create, to build.
And then, 
if the walls crush down
or the sky grumbles, hold my hand
I promise I will never let go!

Sunday, March 2, 2014

E-mails ...

And she thought she won’t be able to live without you!

But strange is this thing habit!

Now she has this ashtray full of burnt words

that she uses in her mails

in her poems.

By now

She has made love to emoticons far too many times

She has fallen in love with them far too often!

Now instead of lying her head against your chest

She writes metaphors,

sends letters into the space

Earlier, she thought she has lost you

and she got scared out of her wits! 

So quickly

mindlessly

 she was trying to hide you

among those rhyming images,

which is almost the same

For isn't hiding about losing

from the vision?

Hope she realizes soon

that all she is left with

are her poems and those smileys

the horoscope of her tousled yearning …