Sometimes I scribble,
in the midst of the drizzle,
sitting by the window wondering,
why words are so stubborn? so plundering?
can’t they just dance and make merry
and have some cake with lot of cherries
and settle in my paper somehow,
make me happy, a little endowed,
Alas ! I would wait anyhow,
Let me enjoy the drizzle.
Till allowed.
© Shashank Bhardwaj.
Enough of the kisses
Enough of the cuddles
Enough of ordinary love making
Lets us have a bare bloodbath together
so that the devil might even fear
the love making massacre ahead.
© Shashank Bhardwaj.
Sometime your voice
makes me skip a heartbeat
and I laugh inside and wonder
is that why
love is called
playing with life?
Beneath the blue waters
lies a mermaid
singing songs and playing everyday
be it a fog or clear sky
one could hear her singing while passing by
she sings for the dead
for the people drowned
who now live in her house
sadly all alone
sometimes I wonder if it is true
do the dead cry
after dying too?
what if they smiled all the time?
made merry
and rang chimes
what is left for us to live then
Lets embrace the mermaid
and listen again.
© Shashank Bhardwaj.
It’s easy to spill out pain,
even easier to pen it down,
a thousand sighs goes into writing,
and you might end up with a master-piece,
soaked in your own tears.
People do take pain seriously,
But what about a merry trip?,
A blackout over a couple of beers with friends,
a laugh so hard you cried,
a kiss you cannot forget,
a gift you always wanted,
Try writing about them
you might end up
soaked in wicked smiles,
and memories to share,
It’s perfect to be happy,
even better if other become because of you.
Yes I am afraid,
to love you,
because this is all,
the heart i have,
battered and bruised,
been through dead
and beyond,
a smile, a play with hair,
a giggle, a playful eye,
all i need to love you,
but why afraid?
because of rejection?
no,not at all,
rejection would pull me out of the black hole,
it’s the acceptance I am afraid of you,
because I cannot get enough of you,
anytime, any point, anywhere.
I have little fire left inside,
left is little love too,
also left is a little hope altogether
seems so little but true.
I have sight getting blurred,
a heart that is slowing down a little,
a spark that is refusing to die
but ready to burn little.
Little things to cherish for,
little things to worry,
little is the time we have,
then why not make merry?
Writings to Heaven 