Change your mind

You’re standing at the edge of the metro platform

with no intent to board the train but to jump off in front of it.

The platform is filled with all the shapes and sizes of strangers.

If you jump, they will be left with a forever connect with you.

Maybe you've ticked all the boxes in your head

of all the feelings you wanted to feel before you die.

So maybe you’ll jump.

Within micro seconds the train will hit you, smash you

And you’ll be a pulpy mess of yourself.

You might have calculated all the risks yesterday,

But who knows if you’d turn bad at math today?

I have heard that trains move faster thank you think.
So when you’ll jump

Those strangers will watch you fall

and will be able to do absolutely nothing about it.

Some will watch you fall and die. And they will be changed forever.

If you die, you may rest in peace while others won’t.

Your death will forever haunt them, and your ghost 
will never quit following them.

You’ll keep dying over and over again in their dreams,

and over and over again, they won’t be able to do a thing about it.

There must be something ugly about your life that has pushed you so far

that you’re standing at the edge of the platform

but just FYI there’s nothing that’s beautiful about suicide either.

There are many better ways to die.

So step back from the edge of the platform,

let your mind be changed

move way back from the yellow line, turn around and breathe.

If you see a clock there, don’t just see the clock;

do what it does. And keep going.

While you’re going away, think of 
the moment between your jump and the ground,

what if you changed your mind then?

A love letter from my bad habits

The pill says:

You pop me in and I pull you back from falling into the empty inside of you. A gulp sound and I quiet the creak of wood outside your window. I kill the dogs in the streets to stop their howling, so you sleep peacefully. This world is a noisy place and I’m glad to let it go silent for you.

The cigarette says:

You light a match and it’s not only me who’s on fire. We burn together, like two lovers sharing heat. Who knows it better to never be lonely and yet feeling alone? I come in packs of ten, wearing a warning label. Guess what I still have people to suck the cancer out of me. They say people die for me. You do too. But I never quit to burn in your love.

The alcohol says:

Dry days, Ten Pms, Out of Stock seem like nightmares and happy hours like lottery tickets to you. According to science, an adult human is 78% water. And there are days when you’re straight 78% me. I am glad you choose to get drunk. Because I sit here in fancy bottles, totally drunk in your love. And I find no other thing to sober me up.

                 

The heart says:

Apart from pumping blood, 26 is the number of times I’ve already been hit by the Cupid’s arrow this year. And it’s not even May. I think you treat me like the heart of a butterfly which lives for 14 days and then dies. I would love you more if you try to make it live longer.

The hope says:

I’ve noticed you do two things every now and then: Throw a fist in the air and chuck me out in the ocean like a silent prayer. I may be a hopeless romantic but my love for you is not wrong in all the good ways. I swear I’ll be the raft that saves you whenever the ship will get busy sinking.

The tears say:

As if everything sad has gravity in it. Each time they make me roll down your cheek, I helplessly fall in love with you. Don’t be afraid of me. Go ahead and cry. This will only boost our love and you will feel better. More love means more tears mean more salt. And salt is the reason that everything can float so well in the Dead Sea.

Forever says:

I have seen you staring into horizons and night skies to meet me. You love to get away with it. You take a little more and a little more until there is no more to draw on, since forever. You should learn to make your choices quick because time is running out and so is my love. A slow marathon.

The paper says:

I am crumpled at my edges and your lack of love is like scissors for me. I am the lover you should be scared of the most. Like I am scared of you that one day you’ll open your mouth to cry to somebody and that nothing will come out. Because I think you’d have given me all of you by then.

Truly, madly, deeply
Yours.

Time doesn't exist, clocks do.

And the clocks are everything because of their hands.

From a time long ago, they haven’t been able to tie its laces.

This time when time tried to change, I changed myself.

I turned over and shake some strength, off my skin.

I figured how it had become weak and brittle

by getting over obsessions for certain people.

And it said it was always a matter of timing.

Certain people are a matter of timing.

Certain time is a matter of timing.

No matter you want them or not.

Paradoxical Wreck

I stayed under the moon too long.

I am silvered from

Collecting the names of the lovers

Who treated me like flowers

In those two arms

And threw sorry along with me.

Both crushed into a pile of memories

Of little and little more of their lives.

It’s a fact all that is silver

Doesn’t have a lining.

Not all those who are crushed,

Fade.

Sometimes you don’t need a line

But a fork to pick yourself up.

Especially, when that building came down

Before you could find a way out.

So, I cross my heart and

Find my place in a corner of

The elevator shaft.

These cold days of December

Burn brighter than the sun.

As I watch the elevator

Coming down, I realise

Why was time invented.

Slow and steady is the promise

While time unceasingly moves

In one direction

And usually heals if you let it.

Screw that, it’s paradoxical

That I break myself, to remake myself.

Like every other brilliant process

It takes time.

Lights, Camera... Cloudburst

Someone who thinks death

Is the scariest thing,

Perhaps doesn't know

a thing about

The crumbling life at

The mercy of nature.

Ushering from the highest of

Heights like Himalayan ranges,

Hitting the depths of foothills,

The nature’s agony brings erosion

Of both soil and lives.

Just flattening the world

In the wee hours.

People in deep sleep

Sink in their bedrooms.

The nightmare doesn't end

Even on opening their eyes.

They see everything they own

Being washed away

And they just cannot pick it up

(and put it back).

Many there stand still

To face the stark reality,

To see the blank sky beyond the ridge,

Knowing their feet had come

to the end of the world.

They drift a little, take a millisecond

and seep into the rushing water.

 

However, many of them

Who fail to face the pain of death,

The mercy of nature leaves them

With nothing but a life

To find wailing chest and tired knees

To curl up and hope to sleep.

They listen to the sound of the

 Approaching helicopters,

As the soundtrack of

Long awaited hope and life.

Until they realise that

The chopper is ridden by

A politician for his trip.

One of the best things

For a girl could be

Growing, growing 
and growing up
As a little heartbeat

In the hands of the
 first man of her life.

To become the replica
 of her father

Would be the best ever

Gift to her.

It would help

In his absence on few days,

The father’s day,

For instance.

Time travels 
only in one direction

But some of the
 thing could be hers

Only if he believed like her

That he was not his illness.

Dent in the air

Missing someone

is like hearing

a name

sung quietly

from somewhere

behind you.

You find

yourself breathing

 just enough

to make a

small dent in the air…

and I don’t think

I could really

tell you why

am I missing

you so much

that the air

around me

seems like

a huge depression.

September

You sneak out of the window and all of a sudden it’s autumn. Every leaf on the tree flutters to tell noticeably that it’s here. Days get divided in equal dark and equal light. The air becomes crisp and you try to smell hard. It smells smoky. And you don’t know what to do with your recently orphaned august daydreams. So you tuck them between the pages of the brand new notebooks and leave them hanging on the branches of up reaching trees. And you set them on fire until the trees are smoldering red and orange and yellow.

It is here to stay for awhile like an old friend, you’ve been missing. Sitting under the blue skies it will settle in your favourite chair and take out his pipe. The afternoon will get filled with some dense smoke and the stories about the things he has done since last he saw you. The sun would love to warm the back instead of heating the head.

Possibly you’ll look back but that’s not where you would want to see yourself. Oh so nice and golden sun will set with a promise of less miseries. You would look forward for the times ahead, sitting cross legged.  It is the time of transition. The silent thrill in your chest will simply take you through the evening.


Under the bright moon light with not so nervous fingers, stitch a blanket of warmth for yourself. Because the air during the night gets increasingly crisper. Violently sparkling stars would be quite enough reason to awaken your dreams, once again. Your own September dreams.

This time, keep them safely in the shelf next to the window. And don’t let them ride the wind.