We Love

We love, we break, we shout, we whisper.
So many acts we all commit.
But it is only when I kiss her,
My love turns true, not counterfeit.

The things I feel for those around me
Pale in significance, compared.
With her, I run, I fly, I live free.
My love continuously declared.

Yes, love, repeated thrice already,
It conquers, even if clichéd.
We risk it all, become unsteady.
Yet we cannot the truth evade.

I sit here, quietly explaining
To my own self, I may be mad.
And I could even be exclaiming
That I am foolish, empty, sad.

Despite it all, I keep on going.
Not letting them stand in my way.
It is her love, eternal, knowing,
That shows me I am here to stay.

Love Sick

Where have you gone, my love?
I cannot see or hear you near.
You are so very far.
Can we get back from this? From here?

We used to breathe each other in,
Inhaling every look and smile.
And is it now hiding within?
Or has it left us for a while?

“It” being love, exhilaration,
An all-consuming lust and passion.
For others, there was no temptation.
It was reality, not fashion.

I mean, it “is,” not “was,” but “is.”
It is my life, my love, my glory.
I want it here and I want this
To be my only life-long story.

How do I get you back, my dearest?
Where and how far can I now go?
I will search wide and also nearest.
We will feel love once again flow.


The wise ones do not believe
That they have answers to all questions.
The happy ones have not achieved
Their joy by trying to be perfect.

Women live, they move on,
They persevere in a storm.
They are remarkable and true
To their nature.

The greatest disappointment
To their Creator is when they
Shamelessly fight each other.
What a waste of time.

Women can resist their
Occasionally clashing tendencies,
Which means that, when united,
They can conquer the world.

The wise ones do not hate their
The happy ones learn to work

Each one is unique.
Each one has her story.

A beating heart

A beating heart.
Can it survive without any
Energy to sustain it?
Can it exist in a vacuum?
I do not think so.

It needs another heartbeat
To accelerate the rhythm
With which it is pumping the blood
Through the rest of the body.

A beating heart cannot race,
But it will stop,
When the propelling force that
Motivated it suddenly
Ceases to exist.

I imagine that there is a whole
Universe of hearts that stopped
Through no fault of their own.
Should we call them broken?

A beating heart exists
Inside my chest.
It is whole because of

My love story

We drifted purposelessly forward,
Not knowing how or what we did.
We played some games, sill pushing onward,
With neither hope, nor love, nor need.

How quickly did we turn around though.
I with a brief touch of your hand.
You still proceeded cool, like fresh snow.
But both, inside, we knew the end.

We knew that we would touch each other,
And, knowingly, we took the risk.
For once in life we did not bother
Be cautious with a touch so brisk.

And so the fire we ignited
For one and many years to come.
We were solidified, United.
We have proceeded thence as one.

Mind you, it was refined and subtle,
As it was centuries ago.
Not any human dared to muddle
Uniqueness of the fast and slow.

A punishment beyond just painful
Could have befallen on us both.
Our witnesses were, some, disdainful,
But we, in spite them, took an oath.

What came of it was not illusion,
For we still live it every day.
Our love – the ultimate conclusion
For what we did wish, hope, and pray.

However long our demons haunt us

However long our demons haunt us,
We wake up to resume the fight.
We drink the poison, turn the hourglass,
And hope with all our strength and might.

We hope one day that we will release
The truest self we have inside.
We hope one day that we will find bliss,
And yet we fear that it has died.

So, up we go and on we struggle
To make it through another day,
In constant dread of loss and trouble.
The demons scar us on the way.

We show ourselves with trepidation.
In agony, we fight our moods.
The muse that fills us with elation
Sometimes is kind, sometimes she broods.

This battle is not for the weakest.
The sensitive have died before.
We must by no chance be the meekest,
If we stand chance to win this war.