मेट्रो के हाथ

Poem on Delhi metro

For all Hindi readers.

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A really dark poem.

If you see me in some land,
with my head buried in the sand,
please show me the broken mirror,
and tell me its my error.

Please give me some sandpaper.
I appeal to your good nature,
for I need to wipe my tears,
and I need to face my fears.

Get me some good poison,
without asking me the reason.
Please walk away after that,
as I kill the inner brat.

if you see me shedding skin,
please tell me it’s no sin.
Burn me with your fire,
help me kill all desire.

And when i’m made a-new,
please tell me i look good.
Try not to stare at my scar,
and tell me I’ve come far.

About a Sunday.

Live for me, tonight,
‘cos I’m just plain tired.
Stand in queue for me.
Just as a favor, maybe?

Get stuck in the traffic.
I know it’s not real quick.
But, I’ll make it up someday,
just as a favor, maybe.

Get wet in the rain.
No, it won’t be in vain.
Fight my battles for me.
Just as a favor, maybe.

I know it’s Sunday.
You gotta shop on e-bay.
You gotta meet your dear Libby.
But, just as a favor, maybe.

Will be your turn someday,
when you’ll need a favor from me.
I’ll fill in for you happily,
well, just as a favor, maybe. . .

Written about a Sunday, when I needed someone to live for me.

A lot of words. . .

I once was so lost,
in both action and thought.
I once was sold short,
though I’m really worth a lot.

Without regret I fought,
battles not worth a shot.
I really was so caught,
in things that yielded naught.

I did what I was taught.
Yes, I was a man of that sort.
The system was on rot.
Then, came the big fullstop.

And It all just stopped.
Much sense it brought.
And I grew my own thoughts,
and chalked up life’s plot.

The puppetry stopped,
for the first time I sought.
He who seeks is never lost.
I found my path – with doubts was it fraught.

It really gave me lots,
friends and a mind full of words,
and now i just walk
and write a lot of words. . .

Act, Uncle Sam!

In the Constitution state,
a score and then some more…
angels met their bloody fate.

Shaken to the core,
Chief wept, and stirred the old debate,
on guns, rights, and cleaning the gore.

Tears, regret and a nation’s heartache.
A day later now, silent is the gun’s roar.
Soon, media shall spit out the bait,

Soon, folks would forget to deplore.
Soon – more crimes of hate,
Soon – more corpses on the floor.

Big Ol’ Sam, it’s time to contemplate,
to soothe the wounds that are sore.
It’s time to cut the divorce rate.

No more can you ignore,
youth who are quick to hate.
Act, Uncle Sam! We can’t take any more.

Media and the psychopath.

I watched the maddening mob,
their low murmur and heightened wrath;
their skewed sense of justice!

“Filthy slut!”, screamed a mob-face,
and slapped the hapless lass;
and grabbed her ample bosom.

Shrieks went out, then a depressing sob.
She fought for freedom and her scant piece of cloth.
But, their skewed sense of justice!

Paparazzi came by and clicked her face.
“Lights, camera, molest!”;
and the fascists performed.

Libido spiked and her honour was robbed,
by the media and a psychopath.
Oh! The mob, and their skewed sense of justice!