Poetry is poison

Poetry is poison

it makes me believe
there is a world
beyond the office chair
and the keyboard
that types at the max
800 words
for a picky reader
who prefers pictures....

poetry is poison
it pushes me
to put on earphones
and switch to jazz
cutting out the noise
of news breaking
and the world shattering
while no one cares...

turn off, dear world,
turn off
the reality button
lets switch to fiction

let the keyboard drum
to the melody of rain
that no more falls.
brew a cup of tea
jasmine, I'd like
let the words make no sense

Disclaimer: This poem has no facts
it is made of loosely spun dreams...
There are no names
or bolds, or italics...

No takers
for the humble imagination...
the poison of poetry
leaves nothing to fight for
but melancholy...
The gardens I nourish
with imagined clouds
bear flowers
that have no buyers...

Poetry is poison...
I still believe
the tree next to my balcony
that would yield neither wood
nor fruits, nor flowers
but is the home
to my little squirrel friend
can spin gold with sunlight
and is actually a chandelier
placed just for me...

Poetry is poison...
I weep and weep and weep
and weep without a tangible sorrow
then smile without fear
when I find myself just a guest
in this insipid, ruthless world...
For I believe,
that Eden exists...
Right there in my balcony...
Or maybe in that room
of my childhood
Where sunlight peeped in
from the ventilator
even when I closed all doors and windows...

Poetry is poison...
I drop my pen
and refuse to take
any more hurried notes
that make the pages
look like a morgue...
the dead bodies of words...

Teach me some calligraphy
let me find an ink pot...
I am drunk on romance
the truth has ceased to exist
the poison takes away the insanity,
and I have not learnt how to live sane!!
  

The night

The crinkling sound of a candle burning,
Burst of a flame, with the lighter turned on high.
A chill that tickles my feet up my socks,
Those airplanes that roar on the foggy winter sky...

The click of the buttons on my keyboard like drums,
Whispers of the goosebumps on cold bare skin...
A dripping tap taps some lonely vessels,
Two pigeons cooing and fluttering as they sleep

Random whispers, and footsteps on the stairs
A concerned neighbour, trying to pass by...
The wind sneaks in from the window cracks
The sound of dust, unsettling as it flies....

On a distant plane, some cats settle a fight,
A rustling sound, from the dustbin outside...
Cold sheets that talk of a lover missed,
In a constant struggle with sleep two eyes...

Those acts that breaks my melancholic dreams...
As the inanimate changes forms and smile;
I count them on my fingers in the dying light,
These sounds of life that come alive in the night...