Hello God. The mad woman is now an adult.

It is going to happen;
once more.

I keep count, no more.
But, my intuitions grow
like vines, creepers;

or is it just the sand
falling from closed fists?

Get away get away. The ease of
these thoughts, the words that form..

A shield, protector, strength:
call it what you will.It builds,builds.


It is a ball game now,
pendulum-like. I am at the edge.

I keep scribbling mindlessly,
it makes sense to me.

The half desire for you to read- ugh.
I almost do not want to see that.

This one for you-no no no.
If only it made a difference oh!

Boom, crash, down.
There, deal with it once more.

What is it this time?
Who cares- time is ticking,

Live live live.
Life is short.

It is a ticking bomb
a duck, a fall.

Up, up up. Yes, I am
walking again.

I was taught to be strong.
And its been a lesson; long.

Strong,long- I thought the rhyme
was it all. Ha ha ha!

I am an adult now; insanity:
I wish for.

I could almost catch it in a child's jump.
But a child no more.

That little escape,
no trial, no effort no salvation
at all.

Restricted.

There is not much space left;
the spell is diminishing and
waste accumulating.

It is all stored in there,
locked up, nice and well,
shunned out of memory; lying,
gathering dust.

The wonderful gardens are growing,
the butterflies, the magical little
creatures and the innocence: all
stored well and growing. Ah!
Perhaps I will revisit?

Fairytales with princesses,
frogs that transform into kings,
Kingdoms that form living space--
The world is out there just
out there, a reach just beyond.

I am growing up; the storage
get bigger and better. The doors
open and close often, the contents
drift into vision and quickly out.

The hardcovers with colourful
illustrations, in boxes and fancy
covers: the once real,
almost unquestioned now sits, as if
in protest.


Images that once captured my mind
now form a box filled to the brink
and labelled-
'discard.'

State of Mind

Saath mere Kaun hai
Yaar hai mera
Jo bhi karna tha
Kar aa gaya main
PYAAR KO HI MAANTE
CHALTE JAANA
DEKHA HAI AISE BHI
KISIKO AISE HI
APNE BHI DIL MEIN BASE KUCH IRADE HAIN...
DIL KE KISI KONE MEIN BHI KUCH AISE HI VAADEIN HAIN
INKO LIYE, JAB HUM CHALEIN, NAZAREIN BHI HUMSE MILEY...
PYAARI RAHE, JO DHOONDE WOH UNKO MILEY...
DIL KE JHAROKON MEIN AB BHI MOHABBAT KE SAAYE HAIN..
REH JAAYE JO BAAD MEIN BHI WOH PAAYE HAIN..
INKE LIYE, AB TAK CHALE, HAZARON MEIN HAM BHI CHALE


-Lucky Ali
Dekha hai aise bhi

This Prostitution

For once, I am not going to make this poetry. I have run away enough and tried to beautify, tried to put reality into writing, making it somewhere a fine painting. Finally, it just is not. A prostitute might be beautiful. She might be serene and subtle or gaudy; she is still a whore. The world looks at her with the same eyes, even if her eyes have that often unexplored vision. But she is justified in the way she thinks, feels, and looks. I am going to make myself one. I feel liberated.

Maybe I'd be better at being a romantic one; as this despondency, the little passion, the greater ecstasy, the melancholy and the breaking pride all crumble and form again, crumble and form again. Oh perhaps, I should stop myself. I am drifting into poetry. Again.

I need to paint myself. But I hope someone looks at me the way they should. A real painting, that walks as much as it talks. Will I find an artist? No, will the artist find me? But I am a prostitute after all, why would he? The artist will find his prostitute, to translate it into his piece of magnificence. He will make love to the painting. They come and go, they rape me through their eyes, their minds and flick me like a piece of dust glimmering in sunlight. I know you are just a client and you know I am the shamed one. You try to look beyond, you steal silent glances, you stop. You stop right at that when you know you're going beyond the line. Abandoning.

And I write. I write about you. Each one of you. The one who made me live, the one who tore me apart, the one who fuelled life, the one who made me love and hate, the one who made me insufficient and the one who made me a statue. I saw you, in my dirty eyes. I saw you.

I ask the artist- could you paint me? This prostitute with million minds and one body? A million loves and one hope? Communicating eyes and expecting hands? I shed to nakedness, down to the soul, I wait.

This one’s for you. Find me.

Two Sides

The bountiful droplets
fresh, in the midst of
sun burns, altering my
balance, and the highs
follow my mind, in
innocence.

Love, they said; forever.
Love they said; the one.
Love they said; a definition.
Love, I say; I know not.
Love.... I wish.

In morality, there exists
a confined space.
In the smiles that touch
me, perhaps not.
The shifting faces I see,
in rain, in sun, in cold
and warmth: a clandestine
love growing and fading,
moving and muffling,
making this poetry.

In stifling silences,
marred by ego discords
a pure attraction grows:
minds in sync, bodies
still, untouched.

Happiness, they ask,
happiness; it makes me laugh.
The rigidity of it, the
blasphemy of it. Happiness
is but a blur, a minute long, or
just longer. Lost in the dynamics
of time.

The surging emotions for
the foreign, the dying desire
for home; the suppression
to live, the want to grow
into the parallel world.

Me, the crux of it all,
within me, the love to see,
it all in relation to me; I
dance a coy hippie; the modern world,
my place here.

For you, again.

Maybe You could be a little nice, a little less understanding and more empathetic. Maybe, just maybe, you can give me reason to expect. Maybe, this hope to expect, will sustain, will be sustained by you. I have come back yet again and why I ask? You seem to be not leaving. Are you going to make me fall into the same pattern all over again? Or perhaps you will do what I have always done.
I WAIT.

Umm.ok.yes .whatever.

It's a bitter sweetness that I want to talk about. Cliched as it sounds, I wish there was a different expression for universal emotions. Difficult isn't it; to accept that everyone actually feels the very same- ripples, butterflies,highs, only, the manifestation is different? That perhaps you would only see this uniqueness in those you want to and let yourself be impacted? But at this point, I am letting go of that feeling of being the human that I know exist in the myriad hearts, heads and faces around. This is for you and I know that for you I stand apart from the blurring, engulfing faces of millions. I know that I appear as a flash, an elusion, a drawing force. These are my assumptions, maybe. From your eyes I see myself and feel the gripping, happy holds of asymmetry. So, this is for you.

You're the reflection of utopia, of hope in decadence. You make me conscious,feel myself in ways that I cannot remember feeling. You evoke dreams, passions, recognition, glamour and all that life's essence that I carelessly let go of. You help see my childish fantasies, the simplicity of those castle building days. You multiply the stereotypes that were ingrained in me and thats why you are what I want to hold onto. As imperfect as you are, as stupid, as different from my idea of perfection it is enough that you have provoked this from someone who was completely disillusioned with the idyllic world.