Sometimes words pour out from random corners,
Colliding and merging, or morphing and searing,
They fly faster than I can talk,
Or sometimes even think,
And without a neuron stretched,
The page fills up with verse.

And yet there are times when
The sheet is empty just like my head,
As if letters have switched off inside my brain,
Staring at the screen of white
I grope in the dark for the elusive phrase
To give passing thoughts a semblance of grace.

These modes come in, go out,
Come in without warning,
Like dots and dashes of a obfuscated Morse code.
I wonder which state I am in now,
When at midnight, the world sleeps,
And I look for my muse,
Tiptoeing lest my footsteps warn it of me.



A wave of stones and bricks has hit my glass roof,
There are cracks but I still hold on.
I try to assemble myself
With the words I scattered over the years;
Words that were chosen with care,
Polished and pruned
Lie orphaned in a corner,
Still resilient to the sound of the mayhem outside.

While the rest were playing in the rain,
I chose to build my monument with these words;
For long, it withstood the rain and the sun,
What chance does it stand against rock though?
I wonder as the cracks get wider,
Did I waste precious time?

The stones keep pelting,
I realise there’s nothing I can do
To stop the barrage;
You can’t stop the rain, I hear me telling myself,
You can’t stand here
Watching your masterpiece being shredded.

So I get up, wear my shoes,
And work on another monument,
Weaving it with newfound words.



So you’ve come back from another town. I see your face painted with an eternally grim frown as if nothing’s right in the world, or perhaps in the immediate world around you.

Your words, soaked in anger, do not spare a soul. Souls whose trepidation you see and yet not notice, as if you sit behind a rose-tinted pane.

And so, here we are, watching every step, watching every word, wondering what pressed the push button of your ire.

Where did this angst come from? I’m still trying to search for the smile you had before you left these shores we walked. Perhaps you buried it years ago in this city while we were busy growing up, lost in our bliss or unraveling the chaos that quarter life ushered in. Or maybe you dropped it somewhere across the Atlantic. Even worse, maybe it’s changed form so much that I can’t even recognize it when it’s staring right back at me.

But no, I think you hid it in some vault and then lost the key. There it lies, eluding you, yet hoping you’d pick it up from where you left.

And yes, you’ve developed a knack of seeing the one wrong in a pack of rights. Must have been hard to master the skill; tell me, where did you learn it? Last I knew, it wasn’t there in our backyard. Could never have been. Was it too easy to unlearn and then learn to develop a critic’s eye, firing your barbs without hesitation? Was it difficult for an older you to replace the younger one?

I am hoping for an early rain, so that it beats down on the anger, and eventually razes the walls between us. I hope what I now see is just a veneer that would wear off with the cooling showers. My hopes may be utterly fantastic and fatally optimistic. For whatever this city lacks, optimism is certainly not one of them.