Thursday, February 18, 2010

A poem in a bar

Drinking rum alone in a bar
is like writing a poem
on a paper napkin.
It's pointless.
But every once in a while,
you see someone smile,
someone laugh, or look at you,
and you raise your glass
for every word you write.
Time slips
through the fingers of mind,
people enter and leave,
till they are there no more.
And you can't tell,
if its happy hours,
or climate change,
or forgotten words,
or listless songs,
just lights begin to blur,
when you know its, its time to go.

Saturday, February 06, 2010

It's four minutes to nine on a Saturday night. I should be leaving any minute now for home. But I'm not. Maybe I'll linger a few minutes more. A few minutes more to have the canteen dinner, listen to one Kishore Kumar song stuck in my head since this morning and, of course, pour my bickering over here.
Although I don't really have much to say. It's just that you know once in a while it's nice to write. Just write. I used to do a whole lot of it when I was in school. Every night after dinner, I would write pages after pages, in the form of letters to childhood sweethearts, writing whatever struck my mind. I guess I miss those days, when writing was simple as pen and paper, and there was a certain innocence to the whole setup. I guess I don't find it anymore.
However, I find it increasingly difficult to understand myself. (I'm not lost, I mean it strictly in one of those metaphysical things that you and I know nothing good about.) Maybe it's because I hear voices in my head. It's like there are some five people, with respective politics and crimes, trying to get their point across. Sometimes I just want to jump out of my mind, you know like one of those things. Maybe you have no idea.
Enough about me.
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