Books

Give me some books
And leave me alone
That's all I ask for.
That's all I seek.

You Were The One

As I sit alone in

This dark silent night,

I wish to talk,

But something isn't right. 

As there is no you,

With whom I shared

All my thoughts,

And all my views;

Tonight I realize

How precious were

Those moments few. 

There was a time

When time itself stopped,

Because you and I were

Engrossed in a talk nonstop. 

Yes, I miss those

Days of love and care,

When I spoke a little

And a lot did I share. 

What I miss more is

You and your presence,

For you were the one

Who would stop and listen. 

You listened to

My every wish,

My every dream.

You could even perceive

The things untold,

The things unseen. 

Now that you are

But so very far

Away from me,

And I know that

Those days won't

Be back to me,

I can only cherish

The good time spent,

As when I spoke

And you listened. 

Now, my words go

Unheard these days,

I just babble

And nobody cares.

I wish you were

Here again tonight;

I’d say, you’d listen,

And then it would

Be all right.

What's Your True Calling?

And it's all about what your true calling in life is. What is it on earth that makes your knees go weak? Where does your innermost interest lie?

After a long span of seven years, when I once again entered the English Literature class, the very first minute I knew that this was where I belonged. That I should never have gone for anything else, should not even have thought of doing something else. That I had been wandering clueless, aimlessly for seven long years and that nothing brought inner peace.

Such similar realization came once again when I entered a huge library full of books on literature. There, standing alone, amongst numerous books around, nothing but books, thousands of them, a sudden realization struck me. I found that I could spend my entire life there and I would not regret a single moment of it. And that I did not want anything else from life.

Literature. Library. Books.

"Literature" is like a very sensuous and beautiful woman who turns me on every single time I think or talk about it (her). I don't consider "literature" to be merely a subject of study. It is a living thing for me, warm and affectionate, and I find peace in her. I talk to her, I feel her, I sniff her through the old books in the old silent library. This library with books on literature is very quite and calm in her composure. Yet, she talks back as I read her. She speaks out loud. It's wonderful to be with her. It's soothing. Time stops. All I want to do is pick out the old books, sit and read them one by one, line by line, word by word, letter by letter. I wanna absorb all that they have into myself. They complete my being.

Write

My hand doth itch
and moves along
with heart that
speaks lines long.

I try and ignore
the words of heart,
they, bursting out,
are falling apart.

I ought to rush
to push them back
or write them out
on empty pad.

So I reach out far
to catch my pen
and hold it out
as do wise men.

My Wall

Well, then,
all of a sudden,
one fine day,
it occurred to may (me)
to put whatever
I got in color
on a public wall
to see for all,
and that's how
I'm here, now,
and you see the wall?
Keep looking, bird!
Welcome to my world!