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  • Too Large for the Canvas

    Too Large for the Canvas

    I wasn’t ready to be dragged

    but I submitted myself to the job

    which was enough

    to make me cry every day

    but I didn’t cry

    because they weren’t paying

    anything extra for it

    all the tissues I got

    as consolation from my workmates

    I carried home

    and turned into kitchen wipes

    I saved some money

    if I were on a reality show

    displaying my senseless talents

    I would have made it to the next round

    just by shedding a few tears

    but I would never win

    a tear-shedding competition

    because I know

    there are people

    whose pain is greater than mine

    the battles they are fighting

    are too large for the canvas

    the painting might speak

    but the brushstrokes

    cannot color the actual pain

    pain is colorless

    odorless

    tasteless

    a universal truth

    but when it arrives

    holding a bitter memory

    even the rainbow turns grey

    every delicious thing

    becomes insipid

    every fragrance

    loses its scent

    while I was lying there

    thinking

    I got a call from the office

    Would you cover for someone tomorrow?

    and I said yes

    without much thought

    because I don’t get paid

    for thinking either

  • Every Heartbeat is a Song

    Every Heartbeat is a Song

    Someone asked me,

    “How long does it take

    to write a poem?”

    I said,

    “It doesn’t take long.”

    My feelings,

    my emotions,

    and my thoughts

    are arranged in such a way

    that every heartbeat

    is already a song.

    Sometimes it resonates

    with the silence

    of a starry night.

    Sometimes it syncs

    with the noise

    of the restless city.

    Sometimes

    it sounds like

    a glass cracking,

    and the echo

    aches through my heart

    without pity.

    Don’t ask me

    how much it hurts.

    When it hurts,

    it hurts.

    When bursts of pain ignite,

    they pierce my heart,

    and poetry

    flows

    like blood.

  • A Brief Touch

    A Brief Touch

    I have been to libraries

    more times than I can remember,

    yet I have never finished

    a single book.

    There was a time

    when I would touch

    almost every book I saw.

    I used to think

    they needed someone

    to notice them.

    So I held them

    for a little while,

    feeling the texture

    of their covers,

    a brief touch,

    enough to tell them

    they were understood,

    they were loved.

  • Am I Beautiful?

    Am I Beautiful?

    She took off her makeup

    completely raw

    stood in front of the mirror

    here I come

    unmasking myself

    just me

    tell me

    am I beautiful

    she asked the mirror

    and the mirror said

    you are the most beautiful person

    I have ever known

    but I am just a mirror

    you have to see it

    through the eyes

    of different people

    in this world

    if you find someone

    who can accept you

    in your natural self

    you won’t need me at all

  • Perfume

    Perfume

    I invited her to a temple

    for our first date,

    because I had a feeling

    that every relationship

    should begin

    in a holy place.

    While I was breathing in

    the scent of incense

    and fresh flowers,

    she complained

    that I had put on

    too much perfume,

    that it was unbearable

    to sit close to me.

    It made me laugh.

    The excitement

    had been too much.

    I hadn’t realized

    I had emptied

    half the bottle

    over myself.

    I also felt bad

    that she had to go through this

    on our very first meeting.

    I told her,

    “I’m sorry.

    Next time,

    I’ll be more careful.”

    Neither of us knew

    whether

    there would be

    a next time.

    I shouldn’t have

    used so much

    of a cheap perfume.

    I didn’t know

    the smell

    would put her off.

    We stood

    before a stone deity,

    covered with flowers,

    vermilion,

    sweets,

    incense,

    and little flames.

    I bowed my head,

    touched the feet.

    She stood beside me,

    hands folded,

    eyes closed,

    praying.

    Only God knows

    what she asked for.

    I stole a glance

    while her eyes

    were still closed.

    She looked

    like the first sun

    of the morning,

    quietly

    lighting up my heart.

    When she opened her eyes,

    she caught me looking.

    She smiled.

    Then she laughed,

    watching other worshippers

    sense the cloud of perfume

    around me

    and gently move away.

    She said,

    “I feel sorry for God.

    He can’t move away.”

    I couldn’t say a word.

    I asked

    if we could sit

    on a bench.

    We found one,

    empty.

    She sat

    at one end.

    I sat

    at the other.

    If someone

    had sat between us,

    we would have become

    strangers again.

    Silently,

    I prayed

    that God

    would leave

    that distance untouched.

    Instead,

    a saint

    in an orange robe

    sat between us,

    lit hash,

    and released

    a thick cloud of smoke.

    The smell

    was unbearable

    for both of us.

    We decided

    to leave

    for coffee.

    On the way,

    she said

    she was getting late

    for college.

    It was still morning.

    She was wearing

    her college uniform.

    I didn’t know

    what else to say.

    So I apologized

    one more time

    for the perfume.

    She smiled

    with kindness.

    “Don’t worry.

    You’ll find someone

    who can bear

    all these things.

    I’m sorry.

    I couldn’t.”

    I never saw her again.

    The first thing

    I did

    when I reached home

    was throw away

    the perfume.

    Even now,

    when I tell this story

    to my friends,

    they always ask,

    “What brand

    was that perfume?”

    I never have an answer.

    I don’t.

    The bottle of perfume

    is gone.

    But the memory

    isn’t.

  • Petals and Silence

    Petals and Silence

    Pink and white petals

    swaying with the wind

    spreading their fragrance

    whispering to me

    I look lovely today

    here I offer myself to you

    but please dont pluck me

    I would like to see more mornings

    kissed by dew drops

    more nights

    gazing at the stars

    singing with the moon

    oh lovely person

    dont pluck me yet

    I am far more beautiful here

    than I could ever be

    in your vase

    I simply smiled

    and listened

    then a bee danced around the flower

    drank its nectar

    brushed against me

    with its tiny legs

    flew past my ear

    leaving behind

    the very same message

    dont pluck the petals

    let me enjoy the nectar

    a little longer

    I smiled again

    with nothing to say

    I like to watch

    I like to listen

    and quietly receive

    the beauty

    nature has gifted to us

  • Beyond the Wound

    Beyond the Wound

    Sometimes all we have to do is show love.

    But anger occupies the mind

    as though it owns the place,

    as though it signed a lease

    long ago.

    Vacating it

    demands a special reason.

    We fail to show compassion

    for things

    that only feed our ego,

    making us

    more fragile.

    We mistake it

    for revenge,

    for determination.

    What do we do?

    We keep wrestling

    with the same person.

    Some people

    will cross our path again.

    We can neither smile

    nor shake their hand.

    Their past deeds haunt us

    so deeply

    that we no longer wish

    to remember their face.

    This is where forgiveness

    steps in.

    It nudges us

    toward reunion.

    But the mind is adamant,

    stubborn,

    like a dark stain

    on a white shirt,

    visible

    from a distance.

    It refuses to compromise.

    So we become entangled

    in these feelings,

    never moving beyond them.

    We become zombies

    inside our own minds,

    feeding on ourselves,

    paralyzing our emotions.

    An unsteady mind,

    arriving nowhere,

    going nowhere.

    The mind performs

    its endless experiments,

    and we remain

    the guinea pigs,

    enclosed

    within ourselves.

    If the Earth

    had never cooled

    after breaking away

    from the Sun,

    we would not

    be here today.

    Perhaps mind

    is no different.

    Some things

    must cool

    before they can

    give life.

  • The Moon Remains There

    The Moon Remains There

    Either love her or hate her,

    she simply doesn’t care.

    Even if you close the curtain,

    the moon remains there.

    The moon remains there.

  • One Goal Was Enough

    One Goal Was Enough

    One goal was enough

    to make me cheer,

    to leap from my seat.

    Though the air was nippy inside,

    my heart soon raced with joy

    and brought all the heat.

    The ball deflected every time,

    sometimes from the goalie’s hand,

    sometimes from the bar.

    My friend pulled in,

    honked from his car.

    He joined me, wondering

    why the ball

    wouldn’t kiss the net.

    I said, “Maybe it’s not ready yet.”

    Hope and fear

    were in every breath,

    the crowd held on

    without regret.

    Then just before the final whistle met,

    the captain struck

    and sealed the net.

  • Three Wishes

    Three Wishes

    I playfully rubbed a lamp

    buried deep in the sand,

    close to the beach.

    A mist rose from the lamp.

    Out of it emerged a bluish man,

    cheerful and majestic.

    “What would you wish for, my master?” he asked.

    “I am ready to grant three wishes.”

    I couldn’t believe my eyes.

    I thought someone was playing a prank,

    or staging a joke so convincing

    it was hard to tell what was real.

    He simply stood there, smiling.

    I didn’t have much in mind.

    “I wish you would set yourself free,” I said.

    “Never return to the lamp.

    Start a family.

    Live your own life.”

    The genie smiled.

    “So kind of you.

    Your wish will be fulfilled.

    I shall never return to the lamp

    where I was confined for centuries.

    Now, what is your second wish, my master?”

    I said,

    “I wish you could erase the feeling of hatred

    from people’s minds.”

    The genie grew thoughtful.

    “Since I am free,

    I will give myself to that task.

    But it is an arduous one.

    Erasing hatred from a person’s mind

    is like erasing words

    written in the sand with the tide.

    The sea washes them away,

    yet someone always comes back

    to write again.

    Things will keep happening.

    People will continue

    to cultivate those thoughts.

    Still, as a genie,

    I will devote myself

    to fulfilling your wish.”

    He looked at me once more.

    “And your third wish, my master?”

    I said,

    “I would like to have loving people around me.”

    The genie smiled again.

    “Once hatred begins to fade from people’s minds,

    love and compassion will have more room to grow.

    And those loving souls

    will always find their way to you.

    Your wish will be fulfilled.”

    Then he disappeared.

    I never met him again.