She stares. She dares,                                     to come closer.

She gets bolder, she inches closer, as you get older, by the day. To your dismay.

She lurks around the bend.                             As you spend, yourself, in moments, in memories, in the pleasant reveries.

She lurks, and she snails your way, she hides, she likes to play.

And then she appears, out of nowhere.      When you’re on your way to somewhere.  A behemoth truck teeters astray. A stray dog comes in your way.

You never know, she is a sudden blow.      Smacks you when you are high, racks you when you’re low.

The pain it causes, the dread it breeds, there’s a finality in it. Like it’s the only reality, innit?

It ensnares some of us early, very early. And gorges on some so dearly.

To some of us it comes late.                           The vicissitudes of fate.

And we wait, alone, stooped in our mansions, slouched on a chair.                     Still cursing, “Life’s so unfair!”

It’s all just a game for her, a silent play.   And we are but puppets, ‘pray and obey’.

Life, in all its entirety seems a delusion.   Collusion of the creator, right from the beginning. Right from the very first breath.

The only permanence is the blackness, of the truth, which was always death.



Who is a poet? WHAT is a poet?

There are a lot of definitions. There must be.

The obvious one, obviously, is “A poet is someone who writes poems.”
I look at it differently. I think a poet is a lazy, lazy writer.

An impeccable, amazing writer, but so damn lazy.

 Poets doesn’t just adjust words into a line.

And a  poem is not a jigsaw puzzle.
Its a meandering river coursing through its own unique path to reach the common, ultimate destination.


A poet could describe, discern volumes about something in just a couple of lines, and that too, in a rhyme.
What other writers usually describe in their ponderous tomes, he has LIVED in that description, in that moment.

And he has oozed out all the essence of that experience in a very limited and profound manner, with a beautiful garnish of rhythm, and raw emotion.
And this speaks volumes about his creativity, and his observational finesse, and of course, a very natural command of the language.
And its not that I’m denigrating writers. Writers are amazing imaginators (that’s not a word). And excellent with words.  But a poet is that good, and that unique, and that rare.
Though, there’s a poet in all of us. Or so we like to say. Or so we like to believe.

But we do know. Don’t we?
Another thing I think is unique about a poet is that he doesn’t have to (neither he has the patience) describe every nuance of his imagination. What angers him, or rather agitates him, is redundancy, and needless detail.
Maybe that’s what I’m doing here. Huh!

So. Poet? No I’m not. No.
Writer? Hahaha!!

Yeah. Good luck buddy!