I weep for not being close to or attentive to my parents. They are in their seventies. I can’t change myself or my attitude towards them, I’ve always taken them for granted. It is not to say they petted and pampered me. I used to rebel always and try to get my way. They are old and not like they used to be, now in their old age. I can feel their old age in my bones. They seem to be content in their retired selves. They rely on my brother for support when needed yet it is rare.

When I come out of my room to dine watching television my dad joins me. He dissects and discusses the news with me and at times I don’t even feign interest. My mom calls me often in a day, like really a lot. Some days if not for her calls I might not have received any call. Is it them craving for attention or is it me craving their company due to my solitude. I can’t and don’t know how to express my affection towards them. For if I start to change my attitude towards them it might feel strange. They are light years ahead of their departure and why think of it now. At least that is what I feel. Yet I want those light years to mean something.

I can’t co exist with my brother. We tend to fight always. If not for mediation of my parents there would have been a violent ruckus between him and me. Even as it is there is a ruckus. Blessed by god we have ample money for our needs. They insist on a business and me working on it not for the money. They want me to be engaged and they don’t consider me sitting all day long before a computer writing, as being engaged. But I don’t want the business and want writing. I want freedom to roam far and wide that can’t be because of my psychiatric condition. I just realised that a tour with my family, my parents and brother might feel good. But I resist even the little sojourns out of our house as I can’t remain without smoking for long. When away from them be it the distance to my room, my love for them grows. Yet when with them there is inevitably quarrel. They try to coax me in to changing my wayward behaviour. But I am set in my habits and can’t change.

I don’t shave by myself and often times have an ugly stubble. I wear the same old dress repeatedly. I don’t do simple errands. All these cause great fights as they criticise and try to change my ways. It still takes my mom a lot of coaxing to bring me to the dining table and have my meals. I thought of writing a poem but prose or poem words don’t suffice to express my emotions now. Every parent all over the world are mostly thus caring and loving towards their children. But in the west especially the parents learn to let go of their kids to seek their own lives. Not all kids are like me unresponsive and not reciprocating. An eminent hand would have drawn a novel out of this by now. Here I am rambling about a novel and not appreciative of what I have going here.

I am being hounded for my being wayward. I must first convince my family that I am responsible. Then I must have a bigger say in things. My brother claims I am not yet an adult. Though it angers me it is true. Watching adult movies alone can’t make a person an adult. Yet he is the one confining me at every step. For to be an adult or not, whatever it is I have to do it in my own terms. Soon somehow I must convince one and all that I am my own man free and responsible. I shall then seek to spend time with my parents and my family which includes my brother. If I am successful in some sphere then all my worries and little inconveniences and inconsistencies will be forgotten. That is part of the reason I seek fame and success. For with it I can be closer to my family and make them worry less. Even if they don’t I think they feel I have never risen to my full potential. To succeed before their eyes what joy and reward. I do all things I do waiting for that moment of epiphany.


Little girls singing

Little girls singing rhymes,
daughters of my many friends,
I got no wife or daughter,
to wear me down,
or make merry,
there is an ache for sure,
but I do have space and freedom.
All pitifully query why single,
what to say,
there is a flame for fame,
just to stop nagging questions,
for when famous,
being single becomes my prerogative.

There for me

There for me,
prepared a business,
serving sumptuous food,
seven days a week,
which in reality,
is nothing short of slavery,
yearning for identity,
me sucked in to drudgery,
hope to grow in to the role,
not compromising writing,
for seek to remembered,
not for food for palette,
but rather for food for thought.


Waded in the drunken river,
as it danced and turned,
to the sober sea.
Nothing can dissuade,
neither her promises,
nor her pleas.
She pushed me
deep in to the glass,
that I sip now daily.
It gave me solace,
when she left me dry,
I shall be loyal,
and never desert my friend,
this heaven in glass.


Her gaze fell, waves rose to softly touch sole,
fresh breeze, aroma of drizzling cloudy sky,
alone from chaotic world and her hectic role,
welcome thunder and lightning from high,
a raging fire in belly and desire in heart,
she was like the elements unpredictable,
wanting to wipe slate clean, have fresh start,
promised him, yet he no longer loveable,
so many now strike forcefully Cupid’s dart,
his lustre, charm eroded making love untenable;

locked inside, thirsting company, idle as always,
he cursed the rains that washed away his plans,
cited rains to avoid, she prettier than Grecian vase,
she was a gift from god that he held in tight dance,
when thought all lost, no romance, she came bright,
and wiped away all his heavy guilt and solitary pains,
ignited with puppy eyes a flame of rapturous delight,
sitting beside her, he won’t trade for all world’s gains,
caught in love he smothered her without respite.
she started accusing him, she that ran in his veins;

she danced crazy in the rain like a newborn free of guilt,
called him to announce the breakup as gentle as can be,
free at last, to frolic and dance outside castles men built,
a free spirit to be locked in the golden cage where stood he,
he broken and distraught to the extent he begged her a lot,
didn’t mind his pride being squashed, he tried to cling,
the mind fuddled, grief grasped, emotions ran a riot,
where seek sweet company, how to take new wing,
now that he knew romance, how forget, he was caught,
who’ll care and weep for him, even time can’t douse the sting.

Gipsy woman

Oh, Mary, 

sweet mother of Jesus,

no surprise that you loved, 

the immaculately conceived child,

but  look at that wonder,

gypsy beggar woman,

on the roadside,

gleefully playing with her child, 

unmindful of the pedestrians,

heaven glimpsed,

in the spontaneous laughter,

of mother and son.

She is rich, 

in love of her child,

he a prop,

in her begging,

but a well loved,

and cared for prop. 

Who created mothers,

magical creatures,

that tend to the child’d every need.

Knowing full well 

that as an adult

he will be her’s no more.

Oh, the scene,

wish I extended my arms, 

in rough embrace,

but just extended alms. 

The unbathed mother,

and dirtier child,

with hair turned brown to golden,

ruffled and sticking out,

as if to challenge  

the world that made them beg.

Wished I could take them home,

as if they were stray puppies,

but they had lives,

more rich than poor me. 

There was no doubt,

the kid the king,

and me the pauper here.

Life flows golden 

through their veins ,

and love cruises amply,

breaking the chains.

But both clotted

in my rusted self. 

Each child a Jesus,

and each mother a Mary,

but who am I?

Why cast me thus,

I a mere witness,

as life happens around me,

but the sole witness,

to the joy of the gypsy woman,

is that my purpose,

to spread that gospel

is nothing more than love.

But how can I?

when I’ve lost all my love,

and my capacity to express it. 

Why tease me thus?

show me to connect to the gipsy,

or let me forever be tipsy,

with wine so fine.

I have no other choice,

but to believe,

that like the Gipsy woman,

I too shall partake in life,

rich in words

disburse them freely. 

Hoping that someday,

my words be precious enough,

that I unloved,

be loved through my words. 


I weep for myself

I weep for myself,
not for woman begging,
with a kid on roadside,
weep for not happening novel,
she fights for kid’s survival,
me more sad,
she has kid, family,
I got none,
except sorry old self,
scribbling lame,
she has a life,
a story to tell,
though be of misery,
I languish in solitude,
letting thoughts raw,
roam nude here,
without shame or fear,
praying for a day,
my child, the novel is born,
and she, me and all is well.


I can’t call myself a poet,
Minerva, goddess of wisdom, deserts me,
but I am a thief,
a veritable mimicry artist,
miming the style and form of others,
Hermes, god of thieves
has blessed me well.
Others have a voice,
a style and a tell
that separates them apart. 
They have a home,
while I forever a guest,
and never a host,
I the solitary wanderer,
wander from home to home, 
without rest, paying homage,
to one and all,
but who’ll pay homage to tired me.