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.

Day 257: Two by Two

So I wrote about the rhyming of two lines( two by two) or sometimes about keeping it to four (hence the four by four). I took a chance when I wrote this one, written in the time frame of a song. These random endings to long days are about bookended hours, about cold days outside and the warmth of a hug that always feels special. I am amazed by the sheer depth and breadth of people sometimes, because just when you thought you have learned enough, you scratch it all and start over again. In any language of our choice certain things mean and feel exactly the same, we are bound by those that we decide to use. For now this is my calling, my way of writing to you in two by two and four by four as though we remain just as before. Sleep well my friend or rise to your own day, I write you in two by two or four by four, somewhere hidden away.

Two by Two
Just write me a two by two
A four by four seems too long
Pieces of the poems that fit
They are simpler than before

Write me a piece of a song
In the edges of the page they hide
Write again and again
Till the music is lost & found

Don't focus on the lyrics for now
The melody will take it away
It will write again and again
Somehow, somewhere and someday

I will sketch with these words so few
I will tell them to you
As though remains of the pieces
That are written in stories too

Come, write me line by line
You sketch me with pencil on paper fine
You capture me still in time
While I look for you & a perfect rhyme

So write me a two by two
Come, play me a four by four
Come, change the sounds that fill the room
Change them as they have never been before

These tunes that you play
My hands swiftly write bit by bit
I am lost in my own home
And in places where you & I both stay

Am I a man of my words if I change too
As I listen to keystrokes as you play
I ask myself the questions on repeat
Are you true to yourself or will you move away?

Day 256: Keystrokes Black & White

Turns out the acoustic of that room was perfect, it was neither too loud or soft. Neither too faded or alive but just alive enough to feel your performance as real as ever. As I sat there on the corner listening to sheet music being played, I kept wondering about the thought of composing a writing in the length of a single piece. These are not about gauging how quickly you could write but rather about how the keystrokes, these black and white pieces that come together to create something meaningful are remembered. As the hammer struck the cords I could hear the resonance felt somewhere on the handles of the chair I laid myself on, the night was being written in music that was too young.

Keystrokes Black & White
Close your eyes for a while, imagine nothing but music on pages

That fills the room and somehow remains understated through ages

The rough edges of a piece that are played and unplayed

And the resonance of the piano keys on your hands, somehow they stayed

You will pat down and start again from scratch, as though new every time

For this music that fills the rooms, it escapes, as neither yours nor mine

Yet for that which stays only for a moment, as it rises and falls
It makes the rooms sway as it slowly bounces off these walls

You will write your own mistakes and make right the wrong
You will play me the best of pieces yet, even if an incomplete song
Till the night escapes purpose and the reasons; why much is to be done
The songs are played again and again & yet none of them last as long

The halls outside, I hear the footsteps stop and speed away
I have seen the temporary nature of things that somehow refuse to stay
I will find it somewhere to speak, without saying even a single word
We are magicians, we are storytellers as the piano player quietly heard

Close your eyes just this once, play as the last piece crumbles away
& a smile that for now, in the echoes they manage to stay.

Day 255: Morning Uncaptured

As I sat there, wondering what I was doing so early in the morning. Wondering if the hours had flipped or had I temporarily changed the rules of the game. Had I been illusioned into getting up early or disillusioned about sleeping late? I am used to the evening sunset it falls between my comfort zone, but the morning sun eludes me from time to time. Though I may capture some of it's first rays as the night ended and I would sleep for a while. We have been patient with little things in life, we have paid attention and sometimes we have chosen to forget. The important things, the important people are so because of the importance we choose to give. Wield this day my friend as though writings about a new day, about bookends and chapters and sometimes thoughts that simply give you away.

Morning Uncaptured
The sun rises so slowly
I wonder if they have changed start of days
I wonder about sunrise on the horizon
And living through an unplanned today

Early morning to my own surprise
Passes on just so easily, as I walk beside
I will never keep hours I cannot talk to you
So in my writings I keep track, I follow through

Some will say that they can capture surprise
Write about heartbreak & come unharmed on the other side
Yet few will traverse into what they write to feel
Parts of themselves that for now they only choose to reveal

The things I add on, the things that will have changed
Are among the piles of things I have yet to rearrange
To those few who follow along early start of morning & days
Who wish to capture the passing away of moments today

Take a deep breath today, and jump into the things we don't say
Some that are written down and yet somehow let unsaid
In between folds of the page I hit restart and somehow rewrite
Transition in between hours of early morning or end of this night

Day 254: Unlearning

Sometimes the hardest thing to do is to unlearn something. It doesn't have to be something good or bad, it maybe something you want to forget. It maybe something that changes you or maybe something that defines you for what you now. I wish it was as easy as simply erasing pages or paragraphs from our live. This writing is an exploration on this "un" doing of things, the need for it and not really on the things you undo or unlearn. It looks at the need for being able to change and it explores it through using "un" as the central descriptor during the writing. In the middle of the day I am still writing pieces as I go, sometimes that I learn and others I do not know.

Unlearning

Undivided my days, my hours, my minutes my passing of ways

My quiet journeys to and fro, not knowing where it takes

My cold winter morning sometimes and sometimes sunny days

Sometimes just the changing colors of falls & rise and fall from grace

Untethered sometimes my heart that writes & sings out loud

I am the quiet in between when all your thoughts have been drowned by a crowd

I am the writer and the writing itself, and the reader as I read

I am sketches here and there, I am thoughts that run free without heed.

Unlearn from things that lay somewhere in your memory

Build thoughts that flow as though in love with gravity

Paint on your canvas or at least sketch me with pencil on paper

Write me as thoughts that grow strong, never weak or tapered

Unfocus from the world my friend, we are finding new pictures that way

We are looking for things that hide in plain sight & somehow seem to get away

The many versions of you and me, seem unsolved for now, unfinished at best

So I lean on myself sometimes, waiting for your perfect yet incomplete sketch.

Day 253: October Rain

Sometimes the changing colors of the leaves are reminders of the moods and situations we are in, different colors and in different ways our own lives as though painted on small canvases. But as they fall to the ground and as it rains, they are all equal, they are all drenched in the October rain they fall to the ground and on the floor. They are reminders of many places where people go to heal, they remain quiet for a long time without the world expressing its need. So on a quiet and a colder cloudy day, I write stories about that which is the October rain.

October Rain
My window tells me so many stories every day
About colder wind that follows the rain
Leaves that fall to the ground that crumple at my feet
I am quiet thoughts & words that the world seems to heed

Are you healing somewhere too, are you looking for more?
Have you found your way back home, just like before?
Without directions that you need, without maps on your mind
You are still in the straight direction, easy for the world to find.

October rain why do you pour down so slow?
Are you hoping we wouldn't notice, we wouldn't know?
Do you come as a reminder of the time that passes on?
Or reminder of winter days that have barely begun

Come out stronger my friend, let the rain wash away
You are stories kept on hold, being written for another day
Write from places of hope, from inspiration and even pain
You are cloudy skies that disappear along with this October rain

Day 252: So are you

I was told that we would write someday, you and I would think of grand things and write about them. These were not writings from fiction, but in reality that often seems like a chapter being written in real time. "So are you" is an exploration of the idea that I may be writing but so are you, because you are adding on the things I write about, you may be the topic, the inspiration of simply musings of the day. But since you are the invisible thing, I wrote this as an ode to the "you" I know nothing about. I am writing as I sometimes will, and through me I hope so are you

So are you
"So are you", sitting on the other side
Hoping and wishing for things to come by
You are restless for new beginnings just the same
Yet somehow lost in the fantasy, hoping you came

"So are you", writing on the other side just in secret sometimes
While I wrap my head around the things I get to write
Friday morning blues or of end of weekdays as it may
I am writing to all of them, all days for now are just the same

You tell me about my quirks, that I stand out but so do you
Because we create something out of nothing & out of the blue
We wish for golden hours in the middle of the day
Because we are never surprised by the things with which we got away

So I am stuck in between a hard place & a choice
Do I write again of the mundane things, should I give them a voice
For nothing seems more inspired than the need to be
So are you this day, like an overturned pot filled with words set free

Day 251: Writings in the Kitchen

"Close your eyes", I said and imagine as I talk to you. Imagine the night sky as you stand on the roof, the stars that fill the sky and a shooting star somewhere. You are sure this one is real because it doesn't flicker like a plane. You can hear the rustling of the winds, you can hear the quiet nature of the space that surrounds you. As we stand there silence speaks in volume sometimes, as you feel the wind graze your hands just a bit. It maybe a cold night, but it still feels warm, in a company, it still feels perfect as you find the rustling leaves that fall to the ground. You follow them home as you walk slowly into the night. The swing set with a broken piece bothers you as you try to fix it, you wonder quietly still staring into the night sky.

Writings in the Kitchen
They will tell you stories that may be too simple to write
They are like making tea, or even filling a room with a smile
They maybe like singing without reason this night
About dancing in the kitchen, without knowing how or why

These moments of pure whimsy if you may
You wonder if they are temporary or here to stay
We are painting pictures on sides of this day
We are adding on thoughts to things that are yet to be said

These writings in the kitchen, you might wonder why
Why creativity comes from inspirations sublime
They often don't write for you, they often come and go
So I capture them in the only possible way I know

These writings in the kitchen, come from simple places
They are unhinged in our mind, and in some empty spaces
They are about flights of imagination in leaps & bounds
About reading of minds and yet not knowing how

Come as you may, come share, moments that stay
Come with warm hugs and even if you can't dance, just sway.

Day 250: Forgeries of Me

Sometimes what is captured in a moment isn't the real article, it isn't the complete story but rather snippets that add up to tell stories. For a long time, I thought about it as snapshots that represent a painting in some way, and yet they are forgeries of a real person. Though forgeries refer to something that is false and carries no real value, I believe that our forgeries are special because only we can create it. We sometimes get to choose and create these snapshots, these paintings. Whether they are writings inspired by others or sketches in life here and there. I think of these are perfect forgeries of me, where you cannot separate the parts from the sum every single day. So I explore this in my writing today, in the only way I know I can.

Forgeries of Me
Who am I to capture or even foresee?
That which lies right in front of me
The best of things in their originality
My best of writings are my own forgeries

They are hidden things kept open in a box
Yet writings shared with the world in hope of being lost
Bound yet unbound, jacketed yet untouched
Reaching out to as far as it could and with just as much

My canvas on the walls on which I sketch & draw
I look for a moment so inspired, it floods me with awe
Whether overwhelmed in things I cannot explain
My attempts at capturing all of this are my forgeries that remain

We are the real thing in the room, you & I, as you read & I write
As I burn away like a candle flame, like the last flicker of this night
For do I create a piece of me, or to the world I am just a snapshot of the day
So I call them my forgeries, for my reality, my inspiration & for now as you stay

Day 249: ReRuns

Sometimes our life takes us back to places and situations that used to be. They take us back to people we used to know and puts us right where we left off. I find them as reruns that were paused or suspended for a while in life, or maybe snippets that are played for now. We don't always get these moments, and sometimes you wonder if we wish for them at all. Yet a part of life that changes is that even in our reruns; reality keeps a check on us, and even as characters we evolve, we change. These get rewritten, re-edited and rephrased and hence they are aptly reruns of life we get to watch and be a part of sometimes with no endings defined.

ReRuns
I want you to wonder, as I wonder if you know
You are reruns in life, part of my favorite shows
Some characters of a book that seem to come alive
Pages of a book that in time we seem to write

My role comes and goes away from me
It reminds me of fact & fiction; within my own reality
Yet there are some roles I always assume
As though unpaused for a while as you hit resume.

We are wanderers who travel far and wide in words
In notebook pages, we fight our own fights & wage wars
We are heroes of the day who haven't fallen yet
We are chances in life, the hands we play & our own bets

Come, write with me, old stories we haven't read in a while
Come, heal from the world, let us look for your smile
Let us all be romantics in stories that had only begun
We are characters in life, sometimes living through reruns.

Day 248: Road Trips

Sometimes long trips are about finding your ways rather than reaching anywhere and anytime. They are not meant to be divergences and deviations from the routine, from the obvious and yet they are one of the hardest things to find. These journeys we take, are about the company at times, about distant reasons that remain distant for now and the ease of transitioning and travelling into phases in life. Here's to such road trips we take, the ones that define us, make us laugh or are simply ways for us to get away from things we need to get away from.

Road Trips
So we planned with no planning in our mind
We were spread out maps with no directions to find
We were alternate roads to reach wherever we go
To places that aren't listed just the ones we hope we know

Crossroads, intersections and on some divides
We are decisions made that are hard to make & find
Come undefined as you may; come along on a trip
Come as memories we write about & some that we keep.

As the warmth of the day, changes on my windshield
We drive across forest lands and sometimes empty fields
Drive up and down these roads the ones we don't know
Are the places we find, the only places we want to go?

Come in any language, in songs I have yet to hear
Come with no obligations in your mind, with nothing to bear
As I write these last lines and chapters somewhere
I will restart, recollect and start again; right here.

Day 247: In any language

Yesterday was a special day for me, not just because I grew a year older or thousands of seconds were added to my life, but because of the few who joined me in sharing it. I was pleasantly surprised with a soft cover notebook, and though I had not written on these for a long time, I think nostalgia is sometimes born out of the randomness in life. As I sat there at my table writing down few lines, my friends sang to me in many languages and it felt just as warm as welcoming as always. Here's to you my friends, I am defined by you and through you as I grow.

In any language
I am empty glasses at the end of days
                       On tables and chairs and in time as it lay
The hours of the evening pass in stories that are told
                        When nothing is put on pause & nothing kept on hold

Translations of many tongues & many times come alive
                       And among lost words we don't remember some meanings survive
We will raise a glass as we pour our heart
                       I know not where the day ends & my hours start

I will lay my pen to rest as my words fill the page
                      While  some moments in my memories never seem to age
You sing to me in every way the world knows it is heard
                     While all plans come together as we speak of words

I write on a paper page this time first, I transfer feeling on walls today
              About an evening that was far too special, to have quietly gotten away
I will recollect blowing out the candles many a times
             I will find comfort in knowing those memories and these friends are mine

Day 246: My Love

At the end of the week I wanted to send some love your way. No matter where you are and with whom, whether you are enjoying reading this with a cup of tea while the ground slowly begins to freeze or whether you are reading this out to someone. Whether you are wrapped in a blanket reading your favorite book as your music fills the room. I don't know if it's the allure of hot chocolate and melting marshmallows, the quiet fall of leaves from trees as fall disappears, and the quieter knock of the wind on our windows. Are you listening, are you writing bit by bit. I hope as I grow a year older today I am allowed to sneak in a preview of writings from a place of my own. Here's hoping and writing to you, and through you to others.

My Love
My love, you are incomplete
Somewhere in the world without me
Waiting to be poured, like a glass of tea
Cooling & calming down as though the wind set free

My love you are kismet to few, luck to others & yet destiny
Falling from where the wind blows, like leaves from a tree
You are collections in time, you are heart held memories
Pieces that fit together again, whenever you need them to be

My love undefined, untouched and not even held by me
You are imagined on pages of paper & you are whatever you can be
You are not imagination trapped in the depths of my heart
You are the morning sun, you are the day waiting to start

My love, my loss, my strength or weakness in every way
I have learned much, lost and yet played the game anyways
Why bother about words, when we could speak with none
Why walk in fear every day, why do we need to define the one

My love for you, of you and to you lie unwritten for now
Like a traveler travelling back home & who knows not how
These meanings they wander on shores, like birds that fly above
Yet I circle the same places, the ones where I find you, my love.

Day 245: Patchwork

Today was all about languages, cultures, food, native speakers, dances and in between they are translations from one to the next. These patchworks of tradition and culture are both inspiring and elusive. It reminds you of the meaning that hides in plain sight, the beauty of every stitch that brings things together. For me, this poem was about a late one, which stitches the day and the night together. Good evening my world in any language you can comprehend, for now I write till the night ends.

Patchwork
Why bother about the little things
Of what can be and what has been
We are patchworks being stitched in time
Till I no longer know what is yours or mine

We are translations in every language you know
Feelings that you still refuse to show
Because not everything can be captured in a while
In neither pain, not even a faint smile.

We are written in every way from left to right or otherwise
Hidden in the best possible way, in plain sight
We are patchworked lives, comprehended in day
Patterns emerge and some differences they dissolve away

This must be how parts of my world appear to you
From far away, sometimes too far to follow through
In words, dialects and meanings alike
We are patchworked imperfections, some yours & some mine

Day 244: Memories of a Loose Page

This was a late idea during the day, about the memories on loose pages we scribble on in time. I am used to writing on sheets of papers folding them up and sometimes forgetting how or why I wrote them. These random bits and pieces on napkins and sticky notes find their way back home in my minds though their meanings are now different. It is as though from the time it was first written to being read again, its meaning had changed many times. So I wrote about the sentiment that the page may feel, an anthropomorphic version of a page with a short memory, being bound by people who read them or keep them close.

Memories of a Loose Page
I see the untouched day in music that moves the soul
In some memories of yesteryear, that refuse to grow old
I see roaring oceans and I see the calm sunrise too
They are alive in my imagination for a day or two

I see photographs that seem too real sometimes
It doesn't seem like much between "yours" & mine
I am growing older just a jiffy,  I grow more in whimsy
While there are some things that are being written on me

I see the candle lights across your table, your poured wine in a glass
The crisp sound of your pen that scribbles, even before the world asks
I am fond memories you find on a loose page
I am moments in time, the move on and yet never seem to age

I see the quiet dusk shadows as it glimpses further into the night
I wait for a little solace in the cold wind that covers me outside
I am writings undeclared, untouched, unnamed for now
I am captured memories of a loose page that remain scattered somehow

Day 243: Color me Red

Over the past couple of days, there have been moments where reading the news was looking at the bare face of humanity and desperation. Whether it was from pictures of children in Syria to the aftermath of a nonviolent protest in Ankara, Turkey. My connection to all these places are real, in close ties to people, they are not just pit stops I made. In the aftermath of the blast in Turkey over 100 people lost their lives while protesting with nothing more than words that flooded the streets. Orhan Pamuk a Turkish author once wrote, “Books, which we mistake for consolation, only add depth to our sorrow. ”  I write poetry to the red, that flows with no distinction, the thought that crosses over and the quiet streets that haunt many for now. I hope you find solace, I hope you find comfort, Görüşmek üzere.

Color me Red
Color me red as though nothing changes or will change
As I pick up the pieces from the hours of the day that remains
I am someone's memories written in chapters of a book
Lost in places I can no longer find, where I can no longer look

I am cries sometimes, the silent ones, you hear me in pictures tonight
I am the one who stays quiet somehow, I refuse to use words to write
I am roses on the graves, I am the last words that some may say
I am the petals that fall to ground, waiting to be colored red

We will make no mistakes, we will fall to the ground & rise again
We will live in memories & look for sanity anymore among the insane
There is much that was lost in the aftermath of this day
Those who have written and spoken to the world, from places of pain

Heal my friend, my well-wisher, my meaning today
We are just as restless, as ever before & as time moves away
But remember me in quiet dreams you dream as you lay in bed
I have lost nothing to the world, the world seems to have lost me instead

Day 242: No Guarantees

Things change and though the innate nature of the change is understood, it is not always accepted. This nature of not having guaranteed outcomes is both challenging as well as liberating. It means we can sometimes be whatever is needed from us, whatever our world needs us to be, but if you are not looking carefully enough we can change. This nature of change, this lack of guarantees is explored, there are no guarantees that things are easy. Yet from the best of these days, these words will be written anyway.

No Guarantees
There is nothing unchanged here, there are no guarantees
Just quiet faith that I am right where I needed to be
Nothing held in illusions of the day, no promises made
We are hiding from the cold winter & the sun & even the shade

There are no prerequisites, no list of things to be done
Fresh beginning about the things we write, our days have only begun
Painted on the sidewalks, on the walls and even thoughts sometimes
We are hopeful of improbable things, sometimes dreamers into the night

Chances are, that in the late hours of this day
When the lights are switched off, some things will refuse to stay
Meanings have changed of what used to be
We are no longer looking for perfect answers or guarantees

Your lazy chair reclines just a little bit more
You will stare out the window and do the things you did before
You will pause even if for a while, to see how things have changed
The world gives you no guarantees, as life it is rearranged

Friend on the porch and outside many doors
They are loud voices of people we don't hear anymore
Yet they are reminders that we are whatever we are, as needed to be
Living without promises made & with no gurantees

Day 241: Stairs & Flights

I never got the concept of late night because it differs in strange ways in the lives of others. It is when you need to be and whatever you need it to be. Among such nights, I am honestly surprised by the warmth and familiarity of even strangers. Sometimes the familiar people are the ones who will make themselves approachable in brief moments of time. As we write stories and lyrics to songs that we rarely sing, I am charmed by the musings it talks about and the random conversation on stairs of flights as they begin.

Stairs & Flights
I think of these random things, that aren't random to you
That have been familiar & yet seem too real to be true
They are like fiction that reads like reality
They are moments of truth, or whatever I define them to be

These lyrics that I will write, as I sit on the floor this night
Writing of all that has been told & untold, my day as I summarize
Will I sing with my eyes closed as the night falls asleep
Will I remember them in memories, some that I will get to keep

O stranger on a colder day, the wind blows just bit by bit,
Realizations on my window stay, like warmth that never quits
I would talk of tales, of the rights & wrongs & things we do
We are storytellers in the later hours, writing poems for you

This pursuit with no meaning, no binding format or form
This chasing of words that happen without any norm
These writings that come together, just a little every day
And conversation on flights of stairs, with familiar strangers stay.

Day 240: Somebody, Somewhere

I stood there by the window as I looked inside, and I was delighted to see familiar faces, people I had not even planned to meet and then there were a few with whom I had planned a few hours. As I hugged hello and goodbye the night seemed to be wrapped in a just a little bit of planning that is held in something known as "kismet", or eventuality or fate, whatever you may call it. It is trapped in between the possibility of something happening and then something happening in real life. For now I take them as they come to me, written in so many ways and set apart and yet never free.

Somebody, Somewhere
I am nobody if not somebody
I am nowhere if not somewhere
I picture you both right and wrong
I picture you like the end of an unending song

I picture this, a blaring radio that plays on my phone
I don't even need to tune them, anywhere or anymore
Like records in the basement of someone else's home
Old movies that are scripted, they are yet to be done.

Stories on a retainer sometimes, acts of a quiet play
We are without words at best, when we have so much to say
Picture me, writings these ups and downs, like lyrics to a song
Come sing with me, in melody we are yet to create, just sing along

We are far too gone, and yet haven't traveled very far
We are incidents, we are moments that defines who we are
The last two lines of poems and poetry that read like songs
Picture this, this is exactly where you need to be, where you belong

Day 239: Misunderstood

It is easy to be misunderstood and easier to be passionate about making things right. But in between these attempts at making sense of a chaotic world I think about all the bits and pieces that are being fixed without need. All the changes that are being made in the world and this night that may be misunderstood stays close by without a single peep or sound. It follows along and sometimes when it is not looking or paying attention, I will find my escape, I will write this to you. This is on a pensive mood, on a downhill day that comes and goes. The ends of the hours keep adding on when no one cares and no one knows. I am misunderstood at best, kept for someone to find, till then I will pretend I will try to find you a rhyme.

Misunderstood
There are pieces that are wrong & right
That don't fit anymore or anywhere tonight
O cry me a river, a stream or a rain
I stand on dry land, away from the shade

Four lines that I write in the hope of rhyme
I have not gotten away with calling anything as mine
For we are mellowed in music and singed in evening tea
Clear among the chaos that comes back home with me

Why stand there miss? you understand these misunderstandings tonight
When you and I in the back rows of the world, seem to have our own fight
As we appreciate this world in what we call as fine taste
I sit with my legs crossed and yet ready to leave, almost as though in haste

Why write at all some night? they tell me it must be kept bound
Instead, I write things that wander in everyone's life, it comes & goes around
I am often misunderstood, heard of when I wouldn't want to be heard
Unpaused and unplayed sometimes, as meanings in my mind, take birth

I escape your thoughts tonight, let me go, let me leave
O what an entangled world we live in, and misunderstandings we weave
I am quiet for a while tonight, till we meet again my friend
I am auctioned away writings, for now they belong to me, that's all I pretend

Day 238: Our Spaces

Spaces are our way of conforming to think with a pause, to give some things their just deserved rest and then to begin again as you may. It is about believing that these pauses, these moments of feedbacks from life kept you going on and getting better from time to time. We are standing up in between the world that is sitting down, we are walking away from the obvious and finding our own spaces. Our simplest realizations come to us when we least expect it, when we least hoped for it. So we write from these spaces, mine and yours.

Our Spaces
We are all looking for spaces in between
Even the obvious ones, that were easy to see
Some that close by, in your heart & mind
While some, that may be the hardest thing to find                                                                                                                                  
Don't give me a reason, don't come undeclared
Come with the world to me, ready to share
Come partially, or sometimes even incomplete
Come as you may, just without accepting defeat.

We are in between, held quietly for a day
In between the writings, I write away
Thoughts that have slipped by in poetry
You have let them slip by but not without a read

Why the simple things are the way they are
Why being close is sometimes harder than being afar
Come as you may, like games of scrabble we play
Find me meanings, that remain unchanged through the day

Day 237: Practice Perfect

Some things in life are picture perfect and then you hear about the notion that practice makes perfect. My exploration between these two elements made me write about "Practice perfect". The things we can and cannot get right, the things we sometimes do and don't do. It is hard to practice the things we write about; though they originate from the things we often do. It explores the psyche of the person not just during the act  of writing but during the exploration that he shares with himself every time he sits down to write. He sways with a romance of the words that fills his head, as I keep practising to create a practice perfect world being written, one poetry at a time.

Practice Perfect
I have been out of practice with words for a while
Writing in between moments when I put up a smile
Because perfect things are not born out of a simple wish
Or half-hearted realities, this is; what it is

I challenge myself to be better someways
To write untethered, to catch all the words that got away
And the few meanings of phrases that lay in my mind
Are the ones I  look for, even if they are easy to find.

Do I practice what I write about,
Do I drown my own worries, in times when the world shouts
I have written to the best of worlds, good and bad
Without having to contemplate about the things I once had

Practice perfect, practice right, just do it anyways
Before all the things that never needed to be changed, changed away
The world revolved about little things sometimes, some that come & go
I keep writing to a practice perfect world, about picture perfect things I know

Come, write with me about the little things, everything that deserves a chance
To a picture perfect world, and words that seem trapped in a poet's romance.

Day 236: Come Hours

Today was about writing back with no agendas in mind. Nothing planned and not even kept aside to which I write. As the music played on pianos and dances on the floor filled the room, the hours crossed over to the other day. To those who have shared a moment with me, in company of great friends I find happiness. It is not about a single things but when great people in great moments that we find a hint of perfection somewhere and somehow.

Come hours
Sometimes a lot is lost & gained between hours of the day
Between things that keep moving and some that have stayed
Partly in between the nights we no longer complain
We are in search of perfect insanity among the sane

Come walk with me , with friends in hours of the night
Where no one let's you down , not even out of your sight
Come find comfort in moments that are shared
In whatever way we know, the only way we show we care.

Yes we are pots and pans, we are lost and found
Yes we are free to the world & yet somehow bound
Yes we are destined realities
We are dreams that we dream, that we are yet to set free

We write with no roles no interludes on our mind
No mystery that needs to be solved, nothing better to find
Unbelievable this day just hours of the night crosses by
And chapters add on without an end in our mind

Come walk away from the difficult things, the easier ones follow & fold
As we win games of poker, and my hands are kept secret, somehow on hold

Day 235: All Beautiful People

I went for an Ukranian film recently, called "Such Beautiful People"  a 2013 piece, which is probably one of the best visual movies I have seen in a long time. This was suggested by a friend whom I accompanied and she thought the movie was called "All beautiful people", an apt name in its own accord. The idea of capturing something so complex, the longing, the emotion of a friendship and companionship is brilliant among breathtaking scenery that surrounds the actors. At times, I am perplexed by their surroundings. The idea of having bare naked emotions among nature that lies bare is beyond symbolic, it is romantic in its own way. "Such beautiful people" makes you think of riding a motorcycle in the middle of nowhere going to nowhere and yet ordering the chocolate croissant with milk just for yourself. "A fine choice," he said

All Beautiful People
The letters on the sand as it lay bare
I gazed into the sea and sky with an endless stare
Till colors formed wherever my eyes would go
Paintings etched from shore to shore

All beautiful people sometimes at best
Choose to be themselves & yet quite different from the rest
They are characters of stories we make everyday
Reminders of pieces of our lives that might have gotten away

I stare at the lonely boat in the middle of the sea
At a stranger's pathway that seems too familiar at times to me
As we walk down both you & I, our journeys to nowhere
We are meanings set loose among words on the sleeves that we wear

In troubled ways and roads, they all have little regrets
On journeys on a motorbike or at sea as we cast our nets
I am bare writings, I rise and fall with the tides
I am without a map, without directions & sometimes not even a guide.