Day 295: Write to Me

Just stop for a while and write to me, from wherever you are, and wherever you may be just write to me. Write with this obsessions that takes over portions of your mind and yet somehow they are the hardest things to find. I want you to think of collective writing as it comes through to you, whether they are in words or text messages or anything that somehow sneaks through. You remember them in pictures sometimes, in memories that have in time only aged, as I capture them from wherever I may be written somewhere on a page. I question this version of reality, the one that is not just for me but written by you in so many ways. For now the Chicago blues and New York minutes still feels the same so I write about from places far away.

Write to Me
Write to me just now from wherever you are
Like places on a picture where you keep coming back
From Timbuktu, to New York, from places that are far
Write to me from every where & wherever you are

Write to me from the crescent moon, the night is colder tonight
Caught in the rain and storm, like thunder, my glass it lights
From the museums that I don't get to visit but tell me I am there anyways
From stories, from masterpieces that are for now been hidden away

Your New York minute still feels the same, I get to see whatever you show
I learn to ask questions just at the right time, sometimes about things I already know
I see brush strokes against the walls of a room, they have scattered paint everywhere
You sing me a song both faded and slow, right from the times square

From where ever you may be right now, or wherever you may wish to be today
Travel even if only in your mind, write fiction about places you dream of some days
Those who have told you otherwise, I ask why bother, why spend time to question me
I am alive in the imagination of those who read, hence this is our version, our reality 

Day 294: Forget me Not

It is a simple idea that we are inclined to leave behind legacies and sometimes we live in those. They may be about moments sometimes, about memories we live in and choose not to forget. For some, this is a choice whether we get to forget certain things and we adapt to this need that life has to remember only certain things. So forget me not when the times don't need me, when it is warm outside or when things are perfect, forget me not when you are happy about things that come simply to you. Such is the nature of things, for now. I give you this much, memories are what they have been I write to all of those who feel they have been lost, you are not forgotten, you will always be sought. You are a little bit of blue painted on the side of the sky.

Forget me Not
So they say that we leave & live behind in legacies
Some thoughts that got away or were intentionally set free
That are planned for so that they are remembered in time
Far beyond myriads of the day and in desperate need of a rhyme

Forget me not my lover, my friend, my mentor whatever you may
For we have conversations on hold and I have much more to say
We have incompletes that need work & stories we must write
We have the world to take together, it is only us for the fight

Come write of truth more true than what imagination can hold
Listen for the quiet things; for now, things that are yet to be told
Forget me not when the old jackets of books are dusted and stacked
I am the inscription on the first page, I am inspiration in what we had

This is all I ask; for now, dream of things ahead but forget me not
As time changes by and rearrange, let me be a part of memories you sought
So they say that the constant things in life is the fact that things change
Forget me not, for we will in memories stay like night & this day

Day 293: Storms & Dreams

In time I was back to where I began, where I kept writing on and on about these little summaries. Some of them were more personal so it felt as though I was writing them as letters back and forth to you and as you unfold and read. I will send these storms to you, some dreams that are flashes of memories. I feel we are fleeing sometimes, running away in reverse from all that we cannot explain. We are constantly moving here and there, we can never be captured never be restrained. This heart of mine must be under repair so I dream of storms somewhere in my head.

Storms & Dreams
I will send you storm in dreams
The ones you dream in black & white
Just a flash of color and thunder follows me
So I write to that very flash of light

Unbreakable my mind & heart, it slowly escapes
It finds rooms and closed doors where it hides
It makes choices, it comes & goes to it's escapades
It looks for places where it can win a fight

I will send my unwinding of this day written in words
Just let me know of your mailing address
These letters that chase you down block by block
You seem to be driving home just for now in reverse

Why worry about things that break from time to time
We are all in garages and under constant repair
We are parts that come with no long term warranties
Yet we slowly get used to the wear and tear

Fight just for now, keep coming back
Go far away in space and yet remain where you are at
I will send you a puzzle that for now is incomplete
Will you write me a letter and send it back to me? 

Day 292: Unwrapped

As the piano music filled the room, the fireplace lay cold for now. It was still warm outside only beginning to slow down bit by bit. For now, the humming of the piano string and the warm glow of the Christmas lights on the tree gave the room more meaning that it has when no one fills them. I believe warmth is often experienced on the inside and in the company of friends. Such is the nature of this company that isn't planned, that comes from the pure absence of need. I have been fascinated by this nature of  something being important even if it is not necesserily needed somehow and so tonight I write about this simple thought as people around the world return home while some start their day.

Unwrapped
I come unwrapped in the songs that you play
I am music sheets that you read but music that gets away
I am a long ride to destinations near or far
I am unquestioned travel to places, no matter where we are

Come quiet down for a while, pause with nothing on your mind
Draw me a roadmap to you, so that you are easy to find
Sometimes the warmest moments come in these unplanned companies
The unexpected stops we take as I find you & you sometimes find me

I write with in this very hope, that those things that might get away
Have been written down, thought about and recorded some ways
Those who start their days today or some that end one tonight
I hope you find a fresh start or simply an escape, a warm sleep this night

 Yes we are all just restless, we are both hard and easy to catch
We are shades of colors that blend together and yet impossible to match
Some paint the walls with me, write and scribble on doors
Come teach me how to dance, with footsteps that come alive on these floors

At the beginning my story lay
                      with a fireplace and a piano that simply played

Day 291: My Eve

Christmas eve's are about gathering the things that need to be taken care of, about last minute shopping, writing cards, emails and text messages. About hot chocolate mugs and warm Christmas lights that hug a tree somewhere. Most of all it  is about the need for families to come together and spend whatever little time they can share. For me, I thought of sharing my eve, my evening with all of those who read as I write. This day, don't worry about perfect gifts but rather about feelings that have remained unchanged over years. Like the perfectly aged bottle of wine in the basement that glows red near the candle, I write in the hope that they are found. Here's to you my eve, I share you & to you the holidays and friends everywhere.

My Eve
This is to you that I write, my day & my eve
To all the times I get to show the warmth that I receive
This is to the absolute, the unplanned of days
And yet the most predictable & sought after today

This is to you my eve, my light of the day that fades
Stay with me like a composed melody unopened, unaged
You are poem and I am like one too, being written so slow
For I have only you to give to this world, only you to show

My writings come from places among those who care
I have been written anew every day so this much I share
Like a watch that shows times but somehow refuses to age
I find perfect melody in the evening I capture on a page

This is to you, these stories about miracles yet to come
About finding a little bit of happiness in knowing what we have become
Come write this way, my perfect evening as you move into tonight
I recline on my couch just a little bit warm as I slowly lose sight

Day 290: This Is

Once in a while, you are bent on finding the best version of something, whether they are the best of your writings you wrote and forgot. Whether they are sketches you drew and forgot about locked somewhere in a box, or simply doodles on the back of a notebook that seems lost among the many notebooks you own. The best things in this world are often versions of things we did and miss or things we wish we keep doing. They are reminiscent memories of a warm past and a hopeful future that inspires you. Think of it this way  "you are never looking behind to lost time, you are simply revisiting a memory of it in the current one". This Is whatever you can make of it and so I leave with a few words from me to you as I wrote from those from you to me.

This Is
This is the best of what I can say
That I am fine and I am doing okay
I am learning about these colors I see
The one painted all across & around me

This is the best of things I realized
About reconciliations, friendships & lost fights
About hearing when you need to the most
Knowing when things can get too close

This is the best of things that don't add up
They play their bets, they pan out and play
They are broken at places & glued after again
They are quiet at times when you hear you play

This is the best of your time & mine
Ones when I would never want to hit rewind
I would carry them in my pockets & with me
As though they are my imprints, my memories

This is the best of something short & sweet
Written in a poetry that you get to meet

Day 289: Big & Small

Whether you move around a lot this christmas or whether you stay put right where you are. Whether you have a temporary change of address, your mood or even your heart. Whether you are unwrapping gifts or emotions alike I am hoping the meanings are just as special no matter what every single time. The big and small cities, and places, these memories that are formed indifferent from what time erases, they are told all around the year but felt only sometimes, thar you get to keep a sweet december as yours, I keep writing as though they are only mine. No matter where you are and how you have come about to be where you are, you are bound to find some hidden meaning just for yourself, your corner of the day, the length you travel your own way, in that little bit of snow.

Big & Small
I will tell you tales today from a place big and small
It is of warm houses that don't need to stand tall
They glow with roaring fire they spew out some heat
And into the madness is born hope that you cannot defeat

Of big and small emotions, writings that come from a place
They are original, your very best that even time can't erase
Come chase these addresses with me I got letters to post
I have decided to bring messages, the only ones I wrote

If I were to tell you that life will treat you the same
Just like it used to, the one of which you would dream
Just come true like miracles between christmas begins
And I still get to feel from my heart & under my skin

I will tell you of the big towns & little towns just alike
For they are all filled with stories, some that have survived
I write a new batch, fresh out just so you know
We are batches of warm cookies, you enjoy in winter snow

Day 288: Till Something

Sometimes the hardest thing to do is to share honestly, to be brave and to know that the person who you share with is someone whom you can has your trust. We are all used to going through so much and in between the right and wrong, the good and not so good life throws at us, at this point, this very moment we are sum of parts even if imperfect. I share with friends about these in my writings as they would share their world with me too. In time we all heal, we grow, and in time we will also reveal. Here's a piece to all those who have taken a step and come out stronger on the other side, some who have just taken a pause, and some who are just preparing for a plunge. Be brave today or tonight, we are half way through life is a long list of add ons sometimes. Thanks for a lending year, and hoping you know things we share are very near.

Till Something
Till something that can be broken no longer breaks
We will have learned to be perfect even in our grandest mistakes
Those that have helped me become whoever it is I am today
Remember me with a little whimsy, with intrigue as you may say

Till our honest truths are defined by our edges that give us shape
We are afterglow of a quiet but yet a warm winter day
Come write with me, heal in struggles that inspire you home
When you piece them back together, the moments you make your own

Till our stone cobbled streets turns wet, the rain washes the dust
It covers everything in it's pathway, even the locked pathways they slowly rust
Unchanged for now is so little of my life, a part of that which might have stayed
Most of my truth, my harsh realities & my inspirations are the ones which got away

Be the best of yourself, in hours that keep you true to yourself
Be the vintage wine that only ages to perfection stored and envied on a shelf
Find a quiet place in your mind, or with whoever or whatever you need
Till you find the letters you wrote to yourself, for now I write & read as we heal

Till dusk or dawn, keep me on a slow flame as I gently brew
Am I warmth when you need me to be, found by more than just a few.

Day 287: Winter Rhythms

Often times inspiration comes locked in a warm glass of mulled wine staring outside into the cold winter night and in the warm company of friends. They are about finding a page on a moleskin diary and writing to the free will take must overtake you with the obsessive need to write. Write languages get translated from one form to the next, I wish we could carry the meanings as though seasons cradled in time from one to the next. This winter the music you want to play is yet to be composed, the songs you want to sing are yet to be written. The winter rhythms that surround us with a warm glass of wine and nothing more than thoughts come heavy and sometimes hit hard. Here's two of such pieces combined from yesterday night, hoping I got to carry over something.

Winter Rhythms
The lampshade reminded me of a warm day
            The yellow glow rested on the table
The radiator that isn't warm tonight
   And the blue wine glass that lay empty fades

The voices in the other room get louder at times
     They are restless at best not looking for a rhyme
We smile in discussions we won't remember tomorrow
      We will have won a few fights and yet be lost in sorrow

I sketch with these words, painting you do not see
       And empty forms of things appear for a minute & leave
They tell me in songs we must sing tonight
        Of lyrics that for now we must only begin to write

I walk around with an invisible wound
    We will all begin with warm glasses & drink through
And in hours of the day I will look for tonight

The little bit that is visible, in dreams that have stayed
That have given up and somehow gotten away
I forget what I was supposed to write, of winter dreams in sleepy eyes
   Or just randoms words in poetry that we get to write

The golden hues that settles on a single page
       That grazes the glass of whiskey that seems to have aged
The last two lines on a page tries to pry themselves loose
     Come play this song with me, of things undecided we get to choose

Day 286: Radio

Today's writing was based on a suggestion about radio as a form of being so many people at once, as
those who are hiding behind these voices we often choose to be defined by just our voice. As few of my friends who actually perform and talk on radio I find the idea fascinating as they switch between personas. They become something during the moment and I wonder if they sometimes remember what they originally sound like, do we let one of our persona's overtake us and become the dominant self? Radio(s) as instruments of transition from an old to new to me are pure boxes of nostalgia that have evolved in time and yet somehow still have an essense of time attahced. So here's to the first radio you ever heard, the first time you punched in a song and the voice on the other side spoke to you , written and spoken to you in "radio"

Radio
You are voices to me, tuned in sometimes as I tune out
You are whispers behind the microphone as I listen to our shouts
These airwaves we catch from places around the world for now
Voices on the other side stay untamed, I know not why or how

These roles we get to play, as a voice without a body on display
As unprepared as we may ever we, always finding something to say
Why find yourselves in these many formats and forms always "live"
Being transmitted , faded as we may way, hoping along & getting amplified

My tuning knob has been replaced, I press buttons now that don't feel the same
Like finding a clear tone with much twist & turn, as though cracking an old safe
So my etchings on the old wooden panels and on the sides of a radio
Are signs of a time that may have played on & on & yet somehow refuses to let go

I am looking for identifications sometimes to my very own voice
One that I don't choose to keep, one that was default without a choice
I don't remember who I used to be, I have changed so many a times
So I listen to old recordings of myself, hoping to find whichever one feels mine

Day 285: Paper Hats

The most amazing thing about imagination sometimes is that it can from the most real life story and yet feel like a storybook. This idea came to me while looking at cartoon sketches of Calvin and Hobbes with paper hats, learning from the whimsy and surprise that life throws at them. For some reason or the other these ideas that are sometimes folded into these hats, these sketches that you and I leave on tables and refrigerator walls they are meaningful somehow. I write to these paintings you paint with just these few colors, these words you complain that I keep repeating and maybe even the spelling mistakes that I leave on purpose. For now, let me put on my paper hat and write the crazy ideas set loose under the open skies.

Paper Hats
These paper hats on my head & my imagination set loose
These characters on a page that are alive if you choose
They will weave your stories as they change every day
So I sketch them with my only pencil secretly stashed away

These imaginary traits between the heart and the mind
They were easy to write about and yet sometimes hard to find
Like water balloons that were never meant to fly
Or the ones that find an escape, and reaches for the sky

These times we summarize and plan for, they are memories we sketch
We are spontaneous at our very best and learning to live on an edge
We are spelling mstakes that go uncorrected, we are imperfections for now
Paint them as you see them, exit the stage sometimes but take a bow

These masterpieces that we collect, they are real life dreams
The ones we see with open eyes and yet the ones we claim remain unseen
Come sketch with me this life on a sticky note, and on paper rolls
These paper hats that let me imagine life as a storybook as it unfolds

Day 284: You Are

I have been often asked about the "you" I write to and though I keep convincingly telling people that you refers to no one specific I like how people attach stories and ideas with them. "You are" is written to all who can relate to it today, who have inspired, been inspired or just broken some ways. Who have been loved, have loved or simply felt warm on a cold winter day. Who have questioned everything and yet somehow managed to have faith. You are written as poetry in a disguise of this prelude tonight, and the inspirations that resides on the corner of your mind. I leave you with this idea of "You" and the roles that may or may not apply, for now, I have much more to write from me, and for you. 

You Are

You are reasons I have written down, about troubled days just the same

Whether we get to keep a smile, I simply write to a day's remains

So you summarize and improvise, and try to predict the end of the game

The one we play every day, the one with odd hours and no name

You are confusions when priorities are needed from life; for now

But when most of all things, I know I need to give fair chances somehow

So I learn from my mistakes and I learn from some of yours too

Because I have to believe whether we won or lost, I followed through

You are fiction of the favorite kind, the one that writes by itself

Storybooks that are still unread, half written and yet found on the shelf

You are Shenandoah songs that we long to listen to on long drives

Yet you are text messaging a song when you wish to hear me live

You are unplanned on purpose, even if you are too tired of them

Feeling the cold wind on your face till your cheek turns slightly numb

I will remind you of the warmth because that is all I can give

While you steal ideas out of my head, and in my poems choose to live

Day 283: I Guess

Living life with the same intensity as always is a hard thing to do. They are not about compromising for anything else but rather picking up from pauses and stops where we left off. They are not about finding the same things either because guess what time has changed everything. I guess we are all looking for these simple escapes when we pause. For me, this comes in writing sometimes, without the need and reading it out if and when I can. Between the broken microphone that I have and the music I wish filled my room, I read aloud anyways.

I Guess
I guess I should have written when you used to read
And writing took little time and was easy as a breeze
When words were painted on our faces like side of a wall
Where being honest was the easiest thing of them all

When little drinks that you drink tonight don't get you high
You are drunk on feelings that have somehow slipped your mind
You are  a painter set loose, you make your home a studio
You are the singer with the bad recorder but with a voice of gold

I guess I should have held on to the first writings on napkins
When whatever I could write about were feelings under my skin
You stood there filling quarters in the parking meter by the car
While you counted change, I kept wondering about where we are

My writings on old sticky notes, on the sides of refrigerator doors
Or by the Christmas lights that surround the couch, though I sat on the floor
I guess I should have written when we were waiting in a queue
Painting pictures, writing stories, even if no one paid attention to you

Day 282: Can Somebody

Can somebody write the prelude that will make sense of it all, that are not reminders of old things long gone, I leave you with just this much, this line , can somebody help me find whatever I have lost or left behind.

Can Somebody
Can somebody in their free time, help me out
Leave whatever they are doing and hear my shout
Can somebody on the outside of my mind
Show me a way, that for now, seems impossible to find

Can somebody look at the remains, put the puzzles back
I will leave you at it, for now, this is all that I had
Comfort finds spaces in between minutes that it can steal
As I wrap myself with just time, not a moment I will reveal

Can somebody at the middle or end of this day
Take my heavy heart as I let it slowly refrigerate
Can someone share with me a little bit of warmth
Just a little piece of quiet in my mind, a little of their calm

Come write this one for me if you can,
I am having a hard time, being myself & as a good man
Can somebody for a little bit, just talk with no agenda today
Just help me write the last line of a somewhat lost day

Day 281: Capricious Heart

The dictionary defines Capricious as given to sudden and unaccountable changes of mood or behavior. Though I realize the meaning, I fail to understand if we are truly capricious if we decide to be such. A friend of mine once told me that we must all live with it, because it comes unannounced. So I write to the capricious heart I see but fail to ever have. I starve on words tonight, as I write to those who have such a phase. They get to be unpredictable in their own way, their planned nature to be unplanned seems perfect at times. Oh how I wish I could be capricious sometimes, unpredictable and lost in ways that are mine. But I fear my friend, I have become just familiar versions to you, but something to no end, not even worth a follow through.

Capricious Heart
Such is my writing, kept on pedestals sometimes
That a draft of wind blows it away, as it goes by
And I watch with wonder at these capricious hearts
Who are all but unpredictable & unaccounted for

I sit & wait at corners for decisions to be made
I wonder if we weighed our actions or did I make mistakes
For I no longer seem to account for the night that lies in bed
I am in a constant day dream for now as I lay awake

We spend hours at this, separating the right from what is wrong,
I keep wondering how we will be, while you choose where we belong
These decisions of the mind, the heart it stays so quiet & still
As though it has said it all, so it stays silent out of it's own free will

Such is my fate, my bounded self, such things that I cannot define
They were always yours to begin with, I just kept them close as though mine
My predictable self refuses to tell me its plan, it writes of it's own part
While you get to keep that which comforts you, in your capricious heart

Day 280: Still with Me

There are things that don't change about interactions with people. Something innate, even if it is a little part of us that keeps going back to the default that we dearly remember. In these moments of subconscious retreats, we keep finding our own mini comfort zones, whether they are in familiar greetings or more  familiar goodbyes. Whether they are in conversations or bags of laughter we carry from one place to the next. In the overtones we sing to each other or discussions that lead us nowhere and yet sound perfect. We are chasers by nature, we love the idea of chasing things and even people in our lives because we are constantly changing, we are always on the move. But it is nice to know my friends that bits and pieces and memories of you are still things I chase & still with me.

Still with Me
I keep wondering about these moments that my mind, sets free
That live a life of truth and lies and yet that are still with me
That are reminders of constant things that we hoped wouldn't change
Some that have let my thoughts loose & somehow get estranged

There are broken things left & right, puzzles that are yet to be solved
Things where I haven't given up quite yet, just waiting for a resolve
They tell me close things are about finding a place to keep warm things
Those that in your thoughts are the best of things you could bring

Still with me my first words, my walk home when I am not alone
When I wish you a hug goodbye, even though you are not gone.
The things you have even the little ones, you value them still
And I will write poetry to such a need, with my words this page I will fill

I wonder about the way we are, were we somehow meant to stay
Just a little bit recognizable, in warm hugs & smiles & in our very own ways
I write to you in quiet retreats for you have always let me simply be
Things are fine, or they will turn out to be, for now, you are still with me

Day 279: Boldly Go

Chances are every class you have been to in a college has ended with an advice or a take home message. Something hopefully meaningful in some way or something that maybe recycled advice from life passed on for the next semester. Over this semester, I was a part of such an experience and when it came to my role as an instructor to dispense advice, I kept going back to whatever I was told. Was it to be a better student, was it to focus on one thing at a time or was it always to be inquisitive. No matter what the advice I am inclined to believe no one advice fits everyone so I would rather end with a writing. In the hope of keeping it light I hope the topic speaks, as you boldly go :)

Boldly Go
At the end of it all, go places where much has to be done
To be found in between pages of a book much has yet to be learned
Travel safe, travel fast and yet take these little things with you
Find curiosity everywhere, and somehow follow through

Every advice that was written on a folded napkin page
Ideas that were born out of squiggly lines that refused to age
While sorting through the right & wrong & decisions on your way
I wish you an adventure that is always there to stay

The traveller tonight, the test taker, the speakers of the class
The assignments due in the next 3 minutes are really your last
As unprepared the day maybe, the restless nights will lead
Boldy go wherever you want to be, and just to life pay heed.

Day 278: As a Whole

I keep wondering who or what we are as a whole, who are we and to whom? What are our roles in other people's lives or does it change too often. Life is a roll of paper where the last scratches and scribbles are all you are at that moment and for that moment. Chances are we kept writing trying to put as much as possible on those last lines. I keep wondering as a whole who we are in other people's lives, are we compensating for things left unsaid. I wonder if we question ourselves about what we mean to each other to redefine it only in our head. We are bluntly honest and in that little bits and pieces of moments we look for ways in and out. No, we are not compensating for shared spaces, we are not living lives in different places, so don't ask me why we are the way we are and tomorrow you will find me only in writings from so far.

As a Whole
As a whole, we are easy to be lost and sometimes found
Easy to remember and forget even if we are present everywhere & around
We are returning our best of gifts, even if unwrapped sometimes
Rarely keeping anything, even the ones that are the hardest to find

We are letting things in, that which still mean something to us
That are old and uncared for sometimes, & that are still a plus
Near rhymes and old friendships with nothing hidden left to find
Yet we are looking for old motives some days, that we left behind

As a whole, I wonder why you bother? are you worried about coming back
Asking yourself if somewhere in our mind, was wishing for what we had?
How do we redefine relationships? that you claim no one will ever understand
Why do you question yourself? whether you are the same & if I am the
                                                                                  essence of the same man

No, I am not looking for things in return I was here when you came
I am comfort when I was needed to be, even if I can't seem to find the same
In the end, we hug and kiss and care even if we are not asked or told
It is who we choose to be in our definitions to each other and as a whole

Day 277: Set Free

Sometimes the easiest things to capture are inspiration set free. That are bounded and yet unbound, that are like ink stains on the book I once read, the cheap ink it washes away and my cold hand they try to write again, but it can't seem to write the same. So I look for warmth, I look for Sunshine where there is much and the captured words of a storyteller that refused to leave his mind. The journey from my mind to this page, this paper, and an untimed age. They are the best and worst pieces they are reminders of the best of you and me, somehow in my mind, unchained and set free. Find that which lets you be, the strength you need in the hours of the day, the meanings you capture, they never left, never got away.

Set Free
I stray quietly, in these sketches that are word
That are unchained & untamed like the edges of a sword
They wield great power and beauty some nights
They are the wishes of a long day a restless night's fight

Set free your heart, your soul, set free your music as it can be
You are written like the droplet that remains on the morning grass & tree
Like the last minutes of the day, like the last glimmer of you
Stay unchanged, unbridled like time captures in whatever way but true

Breath a gust of wind that gives you life, fill your lungs with hope
Your thoughts are uncaptured, they take wings as they fly, they elope
Hold my hand as I write to you, stay but only as a faint scent that never fades
In the sunset, I find inspiration that even time cannot seem to age

Listen to the loudest music tonight, that plays in the back of your head
For much has to be written about dreams that are to be dreamt of in bed
Sleep the grand sleep that is kept but like a treasure, let your closed eyes be
And in the sunrise tomorrow, become the best of yourself, set free.

Day 276: Of Little Things

It is important to pay attention to the little things, the smaller things in life that make sense when they add up. Somehow these unreflected bits of our lives are sometimes that which defines you. For me, they are bits of our insanity unchained that keeps us who we are and as time slips away I like to recollect a few that I can remember. Whether it is a good morning hug or whether they are conversations that sometimes don't even add up. I like to think of them as masterpieces that are drawn as bits and pieces of a large sketch, they are not always apparent, but they are always there. Here's of and to the little things in life that we sometimes find and the few of them that life redefines.

Of Little Things
These little things that I write about at odd hours of day
There are in the back of my mind and yet hidden someways
They may be recollections of an hour, days and weeks
They are meaning where there are none, the ones that we seek

These painters, the artists the geniuses of our time
They have found sketches here & there when it is hard to find
They have looked for inspiration in the places often uninspired
They have spoken to some thoughts, which have otherwise retired

To the little things, that we fail to pay attention sometimes
That has been passed on from you to ones that I keep as mine
We will all get to keep these bits and pieces of ourselves
And remain as the writings we read and the memories in which we dwell

Let go as time passes by, we will rise and fall and try again
We will learn to love insanity in that little way that makes us insane
We will have much more to learn, much more to give
For now these memories and the little things in life, are all I keep

Day 275: Rusted Heart

The idea is simple, that once in a while we lose practice, to sing, to write and sometimes even to feel as passionately as we used to in time. Many tell me that this is a trait of growing up, getting ready to accept whatever it is that makes sense and learning to start from there. And though I let my mind do most of my thinking, I like to think that a part of my writing comes from where I feel, my heart. I have not been able to write the last few days and like all good things we all feel a bit rusty after losing touch. The rusted heart is my way of getting back to all that which I have missed and also write to those who have missed out on things, here's a call to you.

Rusted Heart
I come & go in writings as I please, without a call or need
I pass quietly in between, these moments that lay unseen
My rusted heart it composes music when the world sleeps
It fills pages of a scratch book with scribbles only I can read

My mind takes a pause, it feels the world just for a while
It comprehends all it can & then my heart decides to write
What gets to be on a canvas, on a story book only one page long
That starts & ends with just this much today, a few lines of my song

My rusted heart seems a bit out of practice for me
It plays so many tunes & yet untuned it refuses to find melody
Here's to you those who look for passion in time
Find something that is yours to keep, as memories remind

Dream with your eyes open & in the middle of the day
We are not far from imaginations that we get to create
I write this one to all of those, who are looking for a place to start
Just write again, write anew, write from your rusted heart

Day 274: Two Sides

"Two sides" explores the idea of contrasts we find in life, ones that are obvious and important somehow and add meaning. It looks at the notion that we often find ourselves at edges or extremes and are tempted to compare our situation to the opposite. It looks at relationships whatever be their nature and need, it looks at the incomplete nature of things that make them unique in their own way. Looking at these subtle realities are reminders of a place less familiar sometimes and yet they are warm when you need them to be. The extreme nature of things often pushes us to believe that we share either of the bookends, that from where we are we get to define the opposite. I chose to write this to look at a subtle interlude between the two points and in the hope to capture both these sides.

Two Sides
Two sides of an endless ocean, we never meet
We never exchange letters or words or even greet
You rise as I fall as waves & tides on the other side
Yet somehow you manage to cradle me to sleep

These slow waves they keep coming again & again
The are things we write about from places of pleasure & pain
Two end of a camera reel, negatives & postives at best
We develop from nothing into a moment captured in rest

Two ends of a tall mountain range and peak
You are the top and I am the foothill that you seek
You stare at me when you find your own quiet
While I look up to you surrounded as clouds fly by

Two pages of the book, one beginning and other the end
One undisclosed and the other is the first thing you read
So I curiously stare sometimes, and take a peek
For we are all but bound to look for all of the things we seek

Two points of the day somewhere stuck in time
Like the morning and evening golden hour in perfect rhyme
Painted pictures among colors that no longer fight
You lay yourself to bed as I find the perfect sunrise. 

Day 273: To be Fine

I keep wondering what it means to be fine. Is it a real state of being, is the same as being happy or simply in the previous state of mind that whatever you are in right now. For some reason I cannot keep thinking back of the example of states of a computer that are stored and recovered in case of a failure and all you need to do is go back to the last state. I wonder if we are expecting something similar in our case albeit a little more complicate and a little more permanent. So when I hear myself or others dispense this advice or get it myself I keep going back to this thought. What is it to be fine? and how do we know what the last time we were fine felt like? I write for those who have been for both the giving and the receiving end of this, because we share this constant dilemma of coming back to something that is a state of mind. I am writing, I am fine

To be Fine
I wonder if we are all looking for some evidence
Without me and without you, I wonder if we pretend
Do we carry a smile, are we all too rational sometimes?
Or simply promise ourselves that we are all going to be fine

But then we pull these thoughts out of thin air
Leave behind a feeling long after we are no longer there
Climb into minds as we write fiction with facts
Try to be the best of ourselves, no matter where we are at

I follow through some of the promises that I make
When no one is pointing them out as I make my own mistakes
I know not how, when or why; this story unfolds
I have been asked to keep writing, I will find an ending
                                                              So I have been told

I am bookmarked beginning and endings for a few
I am a familiar face among all of the ones who I knew
This state of being something and someone, in the back of my mind
Lets me write, as I keep looking for whatever it is, to be fine.

Day 272: Undecided, Incomplete

I have often written to the idea of being unplanned, this notion of not knowing how things would go because there is no process that guides your choices or the outcomes that follow. In the midst of it all I was hoping to find something that was simple and yet somehow as a writing felt incomplete to me. Since I couldn't decide on a topic, the idea was simple to write about this undecided and incomplete nature of things. The "me" and "you" in the poem depends on the reader and while some may interpret it as a conversation between the friends and lovers we don't get to keep. Some may think of them as chanced conversations between people that they never get to have again, such is the nature of the writing today.

Undecided, Incomplete
Whether you are a part of my world, you lay undecided
While I look for hints and clues in the moments that resided
About life as it may come, about choices I have to make
Things I fail at and yet keep trying again & again

Whether you are the November afternoon too bright for winter day
Or are you art works that for now just hasn't been appraised?
In plain sight, lies a sincere writing written in a closed room
While you question why I write again and again, I question "for whom?"

You are undecided somehow and I am incomplete for now
We are fighting against time and with parts of ourselves we don't show
We are creating our perfect selves, painted in colors I knew
Written in these simple words and yet meaningful only to a few

Whether you are imperfect, whether I am far from being complete
I do not know quite yet, so I write everyday hoping someone pays heed
For now the world looks for many versions, of both you & me
They are hoping to find the middle ground between the undecided & incomplete 

Day 271: Knocks on Songs

"When I am writing, I let the emotions talk to me. They guide where I need to go, I am not paying attention the lyrics and music, I just need to feel what the song wants me to feel." as I got the reply when I asked Abdurrahman Tarikei, a Turkish singer & musician about what he thinks about when he writes and sings. It was a coffee hour I was invited to and I got to learn more about music and songs in that brief conversation and shared songs. There is a word in Hindi that translates beautifully to a knock called "Dastak". What is more beautiful about the word is the associated meaning the feeling of anticipation, the notion of surprise and the eagerness on the other side. These qualities are born as a result of the first word and the way it is often said. I keep going back to this idea of whether a feeling emotes after the word has been expressed or whether it is exactly like what was said about the song by Abdurrahman, you feel it first & if you can get the feeling right you know you are doing the song justice. Such is music that it must be captured in it's most free form. Thanks to my conversation I feel we get to live & play these knocks on songs we write and sing.

Knocks on Songs
I am the "Dastak", the slow knock on the closed door
The one that I sing about, as you feel like you used to before
I close my eyes as I imagine just this much, my mind feels
And my voice talks back, only so much as it could reveal

So I take this breath of fresh air, that fills my lungs as I sing
I familiarize myself with nothing more, not even lyrics, but just a feeling
Some will say that in the depth of the day & in the song writer's need
Lies a music that is yet to be born, that to which only a few have paid heed

I am the slow winter on your closed window, I am conversations over tea
I am reminders of things, that which connect that little bit of "you" to "me"
We will write again in time, we will compose from the thin air
We will be reminded of inspiration when stuck in slow and silent despair

The knocks on songs, that come to the song writer's aid
These few things that through our voice and our thoughts escape
I surround myself with just this much, there is much more to feel
I listen with my eyes closed, waiting for something that the song reveals

Day 270: Those Who

Our characteristics features are what distinguishes us on a deeper more profound level sometimes from one another. There are those among us who are obsessed with the detail of things, it is in their nature to observe and to them it provides meaning in many layers. Those who are the rational ones who have tried to win their way by looking for explanation among places where there are none. Those who have planned and then some who live absolutely unplanned, some who are brave to look for answers. There are some who feel the need to write, and then there are some who are like meaning which comes and goes when you read something. I find most of all that we are risk takers who are in love with the risks we take, whether calculated or not we are fascinated in our own ways.

Those Who
Those who live in the details are seldom set free
They are unchained yet bound, as bound as can be
They are words that have left the mind & on paper remain
They are breath of the air so free, they are meaning untamed

Those who have sought the logical, the meaning of it all
Who have refused to drift away, who have refused to fall
Have gone around in circles waiting for things to change
The brave ones, looking for answers in their own way

There are some who plan every move, days in advance
Who believe in getting it right & yet look for a second chance
Those who have lost even if just a little bit would know
They are troubled sometimes and this side of themselves they don't show

Those who are writing none the less, who haven't taken a break
Who are not gone for long & love to take the risk they take
Those who have left home but only rarely to return
Who have watched their life go by and do the same things in rerun

The unplanned things, the things you cannot prepare at times
Are the things you learn from the most, they are rough & unrhymed

Day 269: Man in the Clock Tower

"There's a man in the clock tower who holds my back up memory" read the text, it was funny because apart from the fact that it referred to me in the student building with the clock tower, it made me sound like a character. One that you write about in story books and though it rarely happens but I get a chance to write in the second person as someone who is separate and outside the scope of the subject directly but rather writes indirectly about himself. In my case "Man in the Clock Tower" seems like an obvious choice.

Man in the Clock Tower
The man in the clock tower, he counts the hours of the day
He places faith in things that somehow manage to slip away
He remembers them perfectly, every moment clear in his head
Every time he relives a single day, and as he puts himself to bed

The dreams that he dreams in perfect synchronicity
Are in colors that are yet to be painted on a canvas by me
He wanders off from one place to the next, in thought that lay free
As he lays it down, bared for the world, all in all in poetry

The man in the clock tower, he seems to hum a tune
He is both loud and quiet at times, resonating in the room
The hands of the clock chase each other, one after the next
As he crosses off his to-do lists and puts his day to rest

I write fiction about true people tonight, hoping some of it were true
That some of it meant something and when needed came through
For now I keep writing, sitting up high in the clock tower room
As the night fades away I wonder what do I write to? and for whom?

Day 268: Being Human

Over the span of last couple of days I have realized that sometimes even if we like to write poems to a certain inclination, there are times when the topics we write about overtake our mind. They are not concerned with the world that reads but rather the mind that writes and with the heart that feels what it pours out into poetry. I have tried to make sense of these moments sometimes and as the deconstructed bits of pieces of our mind come together on my diary entries and poems. I fold the page on the moleskin diary as I reach out for a pen to quickly trace the footsteps of my thoughts. They are walking along the ocean so they quickly disappear as I write them down. It is human nature to be pensive, to be reflective when you least expect it and I guess to write when no one is reading.

Being Human
Being human, sometimes and somedays
Is the hardest thing to be, the hardest thing to stay
Being true to yourself, being honest at best
Never knowing the rules of the game, as life plays the rest

This writing of mine, it unfolds slowly in my mind
It quiets down for just a bit, while I looks for things to write
Being human is sometimes all about making mistakes
And yet learning from them somehow & someways

If writing this was my way of talking to you
Telling you of stories that we have written together too
You don't know them yet, as they get lost in time
As for me, I am cursed never to forget these memories of mine

If being human is all about nostalgia alive in poetry
About getting these simple words to rhyme & yet be free
I see many sides of this world, I read faces in a glimpse
Being human is all I choose to be, the last time since

Some will say these distractions will run their course
I tell them worry not my friend, these are the ones I chose
For being human may have been about roles we play
For me writing them down, is the only way

Day 267: Summer Winter

Sometimes the hardest thing to do is communicate, the idea of talking when you need to despite all the caveats and in-betweens that exist. Our biggest complaints some nights maybe about conversations we don't get to have, the ones we don't plan to have anyways. Sometimes it is just as simple as trying to reach someone whose battery has run out and hoping that somehow somewhere they get the message. The snippets of our talks, the ones we do get to arrange between these random conversations hold most of the meaning I write to some nights.

Summer Winter
We are lovers with nothing to lose or gain
We just know how to love even if it pains
Even if there are reasons that some things will never be
We are chained in our thoughts and yet kept free

We are long hours, that feel longer tonight
When I can't reach you as you keep your discharged phone on your side
So I label my door, telling you I am back home
Hoping you will read it and know I am waiting for

We are communications that are important yet impossible to make
So I choose to write down, the ones I might somehow forget
I write down my cold night, as my fingers; they go numb
I keep writing in the hope of seeing what it slowly becomes

We are unchained tonight, no questions asked
We are quiet that seems too long, as though much time has passed
We are wearing our warm jackets and yet we are not warm
I try to find who you are as you slowly find who I am

Day 266: Warmth in the Cold

While at a concert for BRIC nations with Yo-Yo Ma and others, I was reminded by one of the performers that it is Diwali the festival of light back home. Once in a year back home in India, the skies light up with more sparks of light than you can fathom as it aptly celebrates the festival of light or Diwali. Diwali is not just celebrated as a festival of light but rather as a victory of good over evil, and right over all wrong. There is a concept that tells you that there must be a balance between these too the one called  Yin and Yang among some cultures. Though some of us are thousands of miles away on this day, I can only share a little warmth from the candles and diyas(lamps) that glow on that night and a company that I share with them. As I write this on a cold winter evening, and the wind makes it only a bit harder. The sunlight has long faded away

Warmth in the Cold
Here's to the many lights that flicker, these warm candles somewhere tonight
They are reminders of roads we take back home, some that we can't this night
They are longer lines of a poetry that we think of and sometimes write
As our thoughts are tucked into bed somewhere, but they refuse to sleep tight

Come with me to places where hope never fades from the restless eyes
Where you are whatever you can choose to be, for me that will suffice
We are looking for music that speaks to our soul, that plays in our mind
Yet somehow the hardest thing to write down, the hardest one to find

Here's to the in(s) and out, to the shortcuts we sometimes know
They are somewhere buried in the first layers of the winter snow
They are cold and warm together, I melt over and over again
Hoping for something new every time, as you call me a bit insane

For some reminders of this night, seat numbers and ticket stubs we keep
We keep telling ourselves there is an encore, there is much more before we leave
Insignificant at best, and sometimes forgotten and unknown
These are my warm wishes, from a cold place, the only ones I show

Day 265: Tuesday Postings

This one is just a simple posting from my work chair and desk, my legs stretched out as I feel the need to write in between the chaos that might surround the day. It is a mellow one with a headphone jammed into my head and a slow music suddenly fills my ears trying to remind me of a place I might relate to it. We are all about simple writing sometimes, about expressing in the least of words and just knowing that you relate to the world in more ways than you think. In the randomness of a mid day post, in the tea cup that reflects from a far as the tea gets colder, I write with the idea of putting a story in a poem and leaving just a little bit of myself and you in the writings.

Tuesday Postings
So I sat there writing a story in a rhyme
Tuesday blues around me, mellowed in headphones I wear
I keep telling myself of all things, I am feeling fine
That I am still under warranty & yet constantly under repair

This slow afternoon sunshine warms my tea mug on the outside
The cold air she blows across my face
As I wrote down to capture just a little bit of my day's fight
Redrawing, re-sketching and rewriting some things I erase

These huddled students on my work floor
They have moved in and out as always before
So I captured just this bit of mystery
How the simple things we write about are our own stories

You may ask me if I will write them long or short
Will they be inspired by real life or not at all
You may wonder which parts have made any sense of sorts
For I have made sketches I draw right on the wall

Tuesday postings from my work chair and desk
Writing a story for you and me, dreaming up the rest.

Day 264: Chasing the Sun

There is a time that is bookended at start and end of days, known as the golden hour. It is one of the best time to capture things as they are, with just enough light, just enough to capture moods and shades that you might not see otherwise. It is almost as though you are painting with sunlight, trying to get just the right amount. Yesterday was about planning for such a time, and then chasing the sunset trying to get the last glimpse, the last remains. I wonder if we all chase things we know we may not always get to keep, if we all sometimes take a chance playing games knowing that we may not win. We are painters who have just decided to paint, writers who have decided to write, even if we are painting just one and writing one day at a time.

Chasing the Sun
We are the golden hour and beyond it too
We are the winter leaves scattered on the ground
The quiet warmth of the fading sunlight too soon
We are footsteps that leave no footprint or sound

As we crumble upon these autumn leaves
You wonder about the things we take & some we leave
These snapshots of a slow ending day
Are slowly, somehow and somewhere getting away

We are chasing the sun, and silhouettes of hours today
Being captured in frames that speak of this day
Drink your coffee with cinnamon, my tea brews for now
I know what I am supposed to find, just don't know how

I want to find the perfect shot, one that captures your soul
Between frame rates and shutter speed, something that never grows old
You are snapshots in my mind, kept for a rainy day
As I capture the last moments of the sun, and it tries to move away

Day 263: Man on a Saturday

Sometimes the obvious things are about the days and hours, neither counting them or memorizing them or writing about them. They are not about finding oddities in the obvious and expected but finding a new perspective. Man on a Saturday is a self-story about this man who moves between one weekend to the other. He is a friend to a few, a guide to so many and probably sometimes just a warm hug on loan somewhere that you miss. Whether it is the emptiness of the house that calls to you, whether it is getting lost in the middle of the night, or looking for some warmth when you need it. Some songs are born out of a simple wish and some perfect writings from the unexpected places, as the man on a Saturday he delivers even if a little late.

Man on a Saturday
So I was told nothing more on a Saturday
Neither dreams of dreamers in the middle of the day
Some who are writing past their hours tonight
Who are chasing inspired pieces beside a candle light

So I sit with a pen and just my thoughts
Waiting for recollections of my days & things it brought
Brighter sunshine that writes itself to a winter day
I was writing of simple things this passing Saturday

So the man on a Saturday, he remains in plain sight
He clocks in and clocks out and yet he finds himself in overtime
The puzzle makers diaries they draw me a map
The ones we have forgotten somehow, the ones we already had

Why write about the obvious you may ask
Why not fight with the best chances you have?
For sometimes the best of my writings on any other day
Are nothing more than your thoughts arranged someways

These quiet pieces; that find themselves lonely at best
As the Man on a Saturday, he closes his eyes as you find rest

Day 262: Hanging on Words

Some journeys are not about the themes they are associated with, they are neither born out of your source or the destination we travel from or towards. These are linked with the companies we keep, the conversations and sometimes just moments of quiet driving as it rains outside.  Yesterday was one of these drives down to Indianapolis Museum of Arts to attend a poetry slam. We are inclined to believe that these poems echo louder in our minds than in the halls of the museum. I discussed this with a friend recently how as kids we thoughts sleeping with books underneath our pillows would infuse in our minds, maybe wishful thinking on our part. As I stood there at the museum lobby I stared at the roof of a dimly lit lobby I found books that filled the ceiling hanging with strings, words hanging above us, as we hang by the words. "Hanging on every word" is listening and absorbing every word and I feel it applies to the things we want to read, the ones we often remember selectively. For a few of us we choose not to remember, we choose to be living more abruptly moment to moments cashed in as needed and for a few this is never an option. For now I hang on to all your words and I write with just a few.

Hanging on Words
So I start with a thought, in between hours of restless sleep
Racing with those that get away and some that I get to keep
So I write them down and keep them close anyways
As I look for meaning in between odd hours of the day

I wonder what qualifies as imperfect mistakes
Between the giving and takings, do I get to choose what I take
Do I write undefined to you or with a purpose in my mind?
Or hang on every word that comes from you, the ones I find

We are part of the artwork installations we walked around
We are the moments in between the sights and all the sounds
Nothing as special could be captured all alone
Even live music and pencil sketches, and a drive back home

I am shelter from cold rain and sometimes just a warm hug that you sneak
Caring for things that I keep as mine, while I let you take a peek
So stay with me just a little bit more, write poetry as though nothing changed
You are coffee cups with hot tea, you are my perfect mid-week breaks

So write back to me, smile unnoticed and with absolutely no reason
Words that hang from books, like leaves that refuse to fall this season
Color me with just the shades you know, the ones you love to use
For everything & nothing makes sense all the time, so I write with just a few.

Day 261: Distracted Spaces

We wield great power in other people's lives, not just because of our defined roles but because of the undefined, the part of us that doesn't need a rational thought process to exist. We value our spaces and sometimes these people, are our spaces. They are our cushions for the world, which we find hard to understand. They are our clarity when needed and sometimes even our distractions combined. They are our strength and weaknesses in a single gift wrapped package and as we make sense of it all, we are left behind taking a chance. I find it hard to define these spaces, these comfort zones we find for ourselves. I write from such a place today, I am the distractions and spaces combined, in the few lines I write.

Distracted Spaces
So we are these "spaces", that are kept so close
We are warm hugs & conversations that never draw to a close
As I watch the sunset & sunrise from sides of your window sills
My canvas lies empty, I look for outlines & colors to fill

Our constant insecurities, at the end of today
Wrapped up in the conversations we never had, that got away
So I hold you down to promises we never made
Hoping for a holiday in between a week, as we take a break

Be unsatisfied, be restless, be inconsistent even with yourself
Be quiet, and loud in your mind, and be the best of self
Be the candle that burns long into a dimly lit space
Be the flicker of light I see, that offers warmth without a trace

I am your spaces for now, and sometimes so are you
I am distractions that are strong enough to somehow get through
The irrational and the sensible me, they seem to pick up a fight
So I decide to be neither, I am just me as you capture in your sight

These stories we write, the short chapters with shorter titles they speak
They are undisclosed chapters for now, as you take a sneak peek.

Day 260: Inside Out

Some say that poetry comes from strange places, whether they are from moments that make you smile, some that make you sad or whether they are reflective reminders of your winnings and losses in life. What makes them special is the fact that they are constantly changing from the places that we write from and of the places we write about. These writings for better or for worse come from the things we comprehend as a shared experience between one who writes and reads. Somewhere in between all the smiles and heartaches, lies a place we both share. Are you reading still?

Inside Out
For want of better or worse, this is all I take
A bit of my memories and a little bit of heartache
Cuddled up on warm couches or passed out on floors
Some warm bodies who have felt the morning indoors

We are hidden sometimes, under wraps & in repairs
Fighting a sleepless night, staying up finding what is fair
There are some things that never break, always hold true
They are like sticky notes that are permanently glued

We are songs that echo from wall to wall
In the staircases that go nowhere, as they stand tall
So we take them and reminisce of what used to be
Connections between people & open doors that set us free

This is all I take, even if they are pieces combined
These are my "original", they are impossible translations to find
So I write sometimes, with a faintly brewed cup of tea
Pour my soul on paper, hoping this is who I am, still me

Day 259: Extra Hour

Daylight savings time ended today, meaning the clock went back one hour and somehow so did the time. Well at least in theory, we are at a strange love affair with time. We like both the past and the future and yet dislike our present sometimes. We are attracted by nostalgia and hope more than reality, and we are all hoping to face something that we already face every single day. For now this extra hour of the day is all about what you decide to do with it. These pieces of moments that you can stitch together somehow and the ones we write stories about. My extra hour comes close to the end of today, so I giving it back to you in writing, somehow and someway.

Extra Hour
Come, spend with me an hour this day or night
The extra one, when hands of our clock lost their fight
We moved back an hour somewhere in time
And yet we were reminded that we hadn't lost our mind

An old friend in the stories that we are yet to write
Or new ones in hours of the day that might have gone by
True surprises they stay, they are restless at best
So we take the easy way and somehow leave out the rest

I divide my hours, by minutes too I guess
Plan them bit by bit, in my to-do list at best
They are gone somewhere too in a sleepy, sleepy day
Where cups of coffee & tea don't seem to keep me awake

Come, live an extra hour with me today
Much has been said among all that is left unsaid
We will live like kings in these 60 minutes more
Yet keep these writings grounded for now to the floor

Day 258: Poor Man's Writing

Sometimes the hardest thing to do is to be able to decide on what you want to write. What you want to capture in the hope that it relates to those who read. For me it is an attempt at being able to capture a piece of your soul, it ages slowly, but it never seems to grow old. The robots we build, the games we play, and the conversations that I sometimes have at the end of days. I am short of word times, I am a poor man writing with what he has and sometimes in moments of need. So I keep coming back to you, in colder winter mornings or summer sunsets alike, wherever you may be when coming close or sometimes losing sight.

Poor Man's Writing
If I could hold them forever these rags & riches of mine
These ups and down that lie around, I could treat them just fine
I could move around in melodies just written on this page
After all, I am a poor man's writing, with feelings that never age

So faintly I move, from my mind to yours
On a cold winter night, I walk in through doors
I am the little bit of warmth that is left in a hug
That extra something you hear clear, when the world unplugs

These are poor man's writing, one who is at loss of words
Who has only written in pieces yet, for now only a third
Who has collected bit by bit, things that fit in a rhyme
So he calls them neither his, neither yours & not even mine

When much was written to the world's surprise
About so little that was left, so little that survived
Meanings refurbished on this poor man's canvas as he writes
He talks of what used to be, and how he has won every fight

They are called the poor man's writing because they are honest at best
But so few will ever listen to it, or even let him write the rest.