bits and pieces

Why do you want to be pushed and shoved again ? Pulled and sent in different directions like a paper boat riding on ocean waves. But what journey is this ? Which path is mine and which not ? Deep down I know. But do I ?

What flusters you most ? The not so unwavering waves you ought to surf or the steady images you have been into and out. 

The insides are torn into bits and pieces with each rush of fresh air. The heart aches and burns to see their smiles, and mimics, perfectly, for the world to see. 

Running away ? or running into ? It's just which way you look at things. Squandered yes. Over not. 

It's what you take from each of them. It's how you deal with each of them. 

There's this brick wall I wish to smash someday into

bits

pieces

bits

pieces

flipping

and

flopping

bits

and

pieces

over

and

over

again

and

again

up

until

then

~

And they call him mad

They call him mad who laughs 

for no rime or reason.

What of those who don't,

even when they have one ?

~

They call him mad who roams

aimlessly with no care of the world.

What of those who walk a named path,

yet know not where they are headed ?

~

They call him mad who dares

to bare his rotting body for you to spit at.

What of those who hide their rotting souls,

perfumed, for you to kiss and bow ?

~

They call him mad who goes

forth to live his dream.

What of those that rot and stench

in the corridors of your aching heart ? 

~

Image courtesy: google.com

Slipping through

It's in my grip now

Forever elusive:

slipping through the crevices of

my now-hardened fingers

or lying in tiny pools

lost in it's own thoughts.

~

The sun darts through 

the canvas of heaven:

sends an array of mute mutineers

upon the not-so-tiny pools

until each drop does fly, euphoric.

~

But as the moon comes over

and darkness casts it's spotlight

upon those that fly ecstatic-

fortunate freedom and drunken dreams

condense as dead drops upon blades of grass.

~

And I wonder if I can ever grasp

the tantalizingly clasp-able tentacles

of my mind, as I struggle

to keep water willfully 

between the plains of my palms. 

*Image taken from Google.com