disability

clueless, totally
i am
i mean it's kind of a mess
i've failed, miserably, pathetically
and all other something-ly-ies
i've failed to photograph, pen down, paint and express
the moments which deserved to be.
it had always been about the moments before
or after
the one which really...
i don't know the word here..
the one that would mean 'deserved to fly down the memory lanes of people in such a way that would inspire and induce a thought process'
getting me?
maybe it's my lack of knowledge
and ability to express as i feel
or just cowardliness
wars have ruined men
maybe
you know.
it's like cowardliness.
and the fear, which you feel
when you think that your ideas,
ideas which didn't emerge on their own,
but were forced out of brain,
would yawn into sleep,
slowly, with time and
the distance one will have to scroll down your timelines,
and the expressions and that fire beneath those lungs
somewhere, unknown to bio students
would sob, mourn and rest.
or those moments where
you had a choice and a fear
and the moments where you had vulnerability and an image
where you seeked discipline and freedom,
at the same time.
or maybe its...
...
(His palms are sweaty, knees weak, arms are heavy
There's vomit on his sweater already, mom's spaghetti
He's nervous, but on the surface he looks calm and ready
To drop bombs, but he keeps on forgettin'
What he wrote down, the whole crowd goes so loud
He opens his mouth, but the words won't come out
He's chokin', how, everybody's jokin' now
The clocks run out, times up, over, blaow!)
...
...
"yes?...no...talk to you tomorrow...switch off the lights and close the door after you"
...
don't worry,
you'll create,
when that Fire
would start burning your insides.
till then try taming your demons with high bass. - disability / m. sandhu

starting over

all of it is just about
tearing apart those scents
from ribs and the guts
and wrecking that dorm of memories
and telling the mind it's okay
and it'll just end if you bear it
for a little more
and then
dig up the nails,
pulling up the skin
and listening to track of the
cracking separation
as the skin trims open
the wounds within
and the idea of a fresh start
pulls out those nodes
spilling blood all over.
and at the end,
when the bones would become too weak
to bear their own weight
burn that mask
and ask everyone to bloody rot themselves
because it had been enough
of you holding up
and them foxing over
and over again,
of you burning
and them, burning.
but do you trust yourself enough
to forgive yourself; a sailor from other end asks
and the castle breaks. - starting over / m. sandhu

dumpyards

Let's assume there is a city, a small town kind of a city, with people having a healthy and simple lifestyle.
But humans generate waste, so the people of the city starts dumping out of the city and within no time, a dumpyard is formed at the outskirts of the town.
Now, the city grows and the dumpyard which once was on the outskirts, gets into the city,
But people adjust.
Now, another dumpyard is formed, additional, on the outskirts of this newly formed up city,
And again the city grows and the dumpyard becomes a part of the city.
Forests are cleared, mountains are chipped down and lands are made suitable, and the city keeps on growing,
adding to the number of dumpyards it has within.

Those who got it, got it. - dumpyards / m. sandhu

no complaints though

it's a little warm
no complaints though
the swing is at just the perfect pace
to and forth
and back again
a few squeaks, as it swings
no complaints though
you are reading me poetry
some french poet, i think
about how stars fall and
how galaxies rupture into clouds of dust
i am missing out some words
but no complaints though
it's time..you need tea
i know it, somehow
it's something you understand as you grow old together
you turn pages as i prepare tea
you slide your finger over the words
but then you stop
it's your wounds
the places from where your poetry flows
has never turned into scars
regardless of how much i wanted them to
you still bleed
but that's okay
you are not bleeding alone, nevertheless
i look out
at the fields,
the mountains,
the trees
and that queue of ants
struggling with that sugar cube
keeping your book and the cup aside
you wrap around me
and i think how poetic people can get
over the tiniest emotions and phenomenons
and here i am, holding you tight against my chest
uncertain if you are spring or winters
if butterflies tickle your soul or what
if you are blah blah or blah
and every metaphor that's used
but you sure are beautiful
i hope my heartbeats would have conveyed it to you
time and again
it's strange, you know
how i've kept my poems about you
safe in my chest
i think I'm screwed in your love
but it feels far better than being not so screwed
there a music that buzzes
i've to get up
it's reality that's alarming
it's time to erase the clouds
and kiss you goodbye
but no complaints though
you're here, always and Forever. - no complaints though // m. sandhu

tired

listen to the sound of clocks at 3am,
with the laze they turn
and the hope they move with
chasing time

that watchman who is checking his wrist watch
has been tired all his life
of the irregular shifts and
never ending necessities

those yawns
sorry, erase that
those silent screams
of the stray dogs and the homeless
who hope for a fancy meal some day

the rich are tired of being rich
and now long for a struggle
and the poor, of being poor
who has always longed for a comfort

people are tired of people
maybe that's why they rage a war
time and again
to be raw again, to be an animal
maybe that's where we belong
between blood, gunfire and screams

people are tired of the chaos
and chaos is tired of the silence

and ideas, being silenced by their own voice

amidst all this,
an artists, brewing coffee at 3am
is tired of what goes inside his chest
and never leaves
of the fact how people are translating each other
and no one actually creating anything,
of all that has happened
and now longs for some ink. - tired // m. sandhu

my poem

i can write you a thousand poems
a thousand quotes on
how you make me feel
and you
but they all will be of no use
if they don't raise storms
spin heads
and erupt hearts.
the poems are...you.
i'd apologies with generosity a thousand times
to all those who read my poems
and felt nothing,
I can't survive a criticism on my poems.
the poems are...you.
i'd chisel down my poem
on the face of destiny,
if for once, my poem is...You. - my poem / m. sandhu

now, tell me
where should I row to?
there awaits unwitnessed colors
to sail through.