I wish I was an open book

Sometimes there r no thoughts to fill the lines 
Sometimes, just thoughts but pen refuses to move
Some lines are dedicated to someone who never reads
And some lines simply go misunderstood

I wish I was an open book
And there I was in your hand
So that you will read me sometimes
And then you will understand

Would you turn the pages
And read them till the end?
Or close it after some pages
And put it up for the rent?

I wish I knew these lines
Before I fill them with my doubts
Or will you answer them with your hugs
Letting emotions speak out loud??? 

Wen its my courtyard that has snow

I was buried and I asked for hand
You said wait i will warm mine n lend
I was frozen, but yes I waited
But the helping hand was never sent

You wont be expected
No por favors now
Y bother u to clean up my pathway
Wen its my courtyard that has snow

The blindness

New day u promised, but same old darkness
Same capsules of truth, same bitter-sour taste
I wonder if it was me or it was my heart all the same
To trust that I would see the light in my blindness

No lights,  I know, the bulbs mock at me
Televisions they sneer
And radios laugh at what they see
A cracked bowl of hope, that is bound to leak

I tried to weave dreams, when you described me the lights
When you moved some feathers and flew some kites
Yeah, but now in this pitch dark I stare at vacuum
And try rubbing out the blindness, the pitch black doom

And now I lay, in same old corner
With same old stick near that smelly burner
Yet I am like a shadow beneath it,
It lights the room, but never do we meet

But who are you? The burner or the stick
Burner I guess, because it is not me that you miss
You search for the dancer, who would dance with your flames
And meet with your rhythms, play in your games

I would settle for the stick, you can now cease to light
Either way you may burn, with all your might
The darkness would cover me as quilt
With many pains and some guilts

So leave now me to this blindness
Leave and go join her in her dance
I will lay and try to sing along
Though it may be my swan song!!

The jigsaw

The pieces I join, no not of the jigsaw
Some big chunks, some tit bits here and there
I search each of them, for making a bigger picture
What are they I wonder, so badly torn to bits
With shredded and scratched parts
So badly beaten and torn apart

Some places I could feel the pulses
Some places had been smeared with tears
What could have gone so bad for these bits
To be so badly hurt and in pain
As if it was speaking my heart
And reflecting my inner self

Then, when I was mid way to joining
I realised what it was
Then I knew why it reflected me
My pain and wound so beautifully
I was joining together my own heart, torn in 1000 pieces
And trying to sew it together without knowing how badly torn I was!!!!

Poetic journal- a camouflage of emotions

Poems are in fact, the camouflage to feelings, where you can hide behind the rhymes and symbols, creating maze of words and entertaining yourself as well as the one who reads in puzzles of wordy illustrations. This is what I usually do, I write and hide behind it. It is more easier to express when it is not obvious, when you do not have to utter exactly the words that you want to communicate and yet you can get the message conveyed. 

But then, they are even symbol of confusion, depicting your nervousness and anxiety, your happiness and when you find it hard to believe it is happening. It is just like invisibility cloak of Harry Potter- smooth, silky and of exclusive quality and so intelligently woven that you can completely hide yourself yet be there. It is, in short, escape route, a vent to your raging emotions- good or bad. 

I have noticed myself, instead of filling pages of diaries that I previously did, I rather opted for rhyming my thought and coordinating my emotions with the words I typed, in short and abstract sentences shapes bluntly filling the lines of this blog. I wrote when I was heart broken or extremely happy, when I dreamed and when I thought I was falling short of one. It was sometimes very dark and blue and sometimes as vibrant and jovial to my readers, but for me it was the colour of shades that I wore in my heart and bore in my mind that very moment. Some poems are infact kiddish, some too abstract but each and every one of them are like daily journals of my life. 

I tried to keep them simple yet I filled them with symbols, you can imagine snowy day but it would be hard to depict the chill running through my thoughts when I scribbled every words. It is not just about me I write, I write about every freaking stupid stuff that moves me, makes me pensive or insure a giggle out of my throat. The words I write are my vision, my emotions are my sight and things I write- the final ones are my painting. I am yet to be Picasso, no I am not even near by him but I never wanted to be him. All I wanted was to share- either by poems or by scribbling of thoughts, writing the dimensions of complexities that I tangle myself with every day and I wish to continue it, forever.