Roadblocks.

My story is stuck

on the point where

I pick up myself and leave.

My words are plucked

at the time

when I try to read.

My joy, my life,

and my sorrow

Every feeling

that I borrow

is more and more

incomplete.

My poems prose

is lost in your brows.

Love is a silent murmur

too faint to hear

too loud to deny.

Don’t ask me why ?

It’s the way things are.

But I got no luck

to get me through

and I wonder,

What comes next ?

Or I shall bring on

the words

poetry

prose

to a close

A lake of words

might be just

the most lovely song.

Who knows?

I will for now

carry on.

Drift On !

For some, it’s a song.
For some, poetry.
For others, just words.
Or nothing, meaningless.
And meaningful.
My words know not,
formats and rules.
They flow like dust,
from denuded runes.
Slowly drifting,
directionless.
Lost in an ocean of,
thoughtfulness.
Struggling among
multiple identities.
Surviving their source,
my words just flow.

No tags, no tag lines.
No rhythm and no rhyme.
My words are,
an essence of experiences,
the verdict of my crimes.
Feel bad, feel good.
Feel pleasure or anguish.
Feel the depth or the high skies.
Feel the truth hidden beneath lies.
It is a Journey of words,
a labyrinth of consciousness.
I implore you, do not share this road,
for you must make your own.
Watch from afar,
and when you are done,
drift on and wander.
Just like my words.