#ppem

TENNIS

tennis

can be a poem

doesn't sound

like ping pong

never heard a poem

sound like that

not

even rap

not even rap

and this poem here

wrote it really

living

hand to mouth

got stuff from the East

stuff from the West

stuff on

loan from

both North and

South

meanwhile Robert Frost

writes

of walls and

nets

of roads not taken

poems left for dead

though you

can try

to resurrect them

game to love

CLOCKWISE

I had my house cleaned

got my

clock cleaned

every follicle

of my body

washed and dried

dried and waahed

painstakingly

until it all paid off

and me

shining

like a new pin

all my brass

parts buffed

so

pleased with the service

what a big tip

A free fall so deep into unwilling

feelings, flying through maliciously

idealistic winds;

Betrayal is a breath I can taste.

Yet again im decieved to

delve towards uncertainty and

Wrote this along with my good friend and one of my favorite poets, Nandana. Do make sure to check out their poetry right here @kaleidoscopes._ This pen that I wield is a double edged sword, that deepens my wounds and impales the devoteewith a penny worth of poetry having no rhyme or meterAnd yet I wonder why everything I writeTurns out sombre like the ashen sky before a storm.This storm brews…

Sits evenly inside,

That holds all that i wish

Would disappear or hide,

Never affected by the silent demands

Never impacted by the silent pleas

That consistently try

To tear it apart,

Unscathed, unnerved and inhospitable it is,

Something changeless that

Cannot be willed to be pushed away

From the extremities,

It sits and keeps pounding beneath

Letting me know

Light up like a glorious saturday noon,

Shimmering with every step

Burning beautifully with a joy

That has no peripheries ever,

You can shine easily

Like a subtle early evening

Lost in your own dreams,

You still overwhelm the senses

As you wander down like

que dijo: «dos enormes piernas pétreas, sin su tronco

se yerguen en el desierto. A su lado, en la arena,

semihundido, yace un rostro hecho pedazos, cuyo ceño

y mueca en la boca, y desdén de frío dominio,

cuentan que su escultor comprendió bien esas pasiones

las cuales aún sobreviven, grabadas en estos inertes objetos,

a las manos que las tallaron y al corazón que las alimentó.

Y en el pedestal se leen estas palabras:

"Mi nombre es Ozymandias, rey de reyes:

¡Contemplad mis obras, poderosos, y desesperad!"

Nada queda a su lado. Alrededor de la decadencia

de estas colosales ruinas, infinitas y desnudas

se extienden, a lo lejos, las solitarias y llanas arenas»