SMS # 1

hi, just this new thing i found. hope it works. its suddenly more difficult. more than we like to believe? we envy them more than we like each other isn't it great, how just liking someone never matters to them. we feel lost and yet waiting to be full which matters if only to us.

SMS # 2

Puuch: "Ok we are gonna start now. Did you fill the form that I gave you?"

Juuth: "Yes, here it is."

p: "Good. I am gonna start with some personal questions. You dont need to be completely honest. And try Not to think too much about it. Is that ok?"

j: "sure."

p: "When was the last time you talked with your dad?"

j: "A few days back. He called me."

p: "Does he call you often?"

The meaning of "rejectee"

Communication is made so easy these days. You talk with your love-ones and your hate-tons over long distances -- phone, sms, chat, email, a 20 hr long flight with 4 days of jet lag. Communication is made so easy these days.
But it comes at a price... and you are aksed to pay more for the cheaper options. The ease brought about by the miracles of science and capitalism distance us from primitive joys, which are still best at short range. The look in he

... relatives

Look for the bare necessities
The simple bare necessities
forget about your worries and your stress
....

Where do all the idealists come from? And what happens to all of these insignificant clowns, these... them.

Today the newspaper told me another mudassira-like story. Only this mudassira was three years old, and her ex-drug addict poor wretched and miserable father was acting out of pure concern and love for her, and his other two daughters... 5 and 9. The 38 year old beast could not make sense of his life, and could see no future for him and his daughters. Who would feed them, educate them, find them suitable matches and pay the dowry.

Two blue socks lying in my backpack
Remind me of the night,
when you and I
Sat in the theatre
with gloom,
and pondered and mused and laughed
at the twisted fake lives

drifting in and out,
i can see u smile
And
incapable of being subtle,
looked at your face
all the while

The news of the day.
It starts with sorrow
And hate

The touch of your hollow stares
My head in her hand
And we quietly agree
On this exchange of
thoughts and smiles

I share my suffering
And wish to see you
play with your hair
And sing

There he were... running around the field. He were doing well and certainly had improved a lot since last Monday. Two pole-hits, subtle movement. But there is others, and others was good too. Others is always better... despite the meanings of his name.

Maybe she were the reason. Maybe the early morning trip, excessive work, shitty pay, complicated lies.

Everyone else were playing better.
Everyone else who really matter.

...a man making love to his 7 months pregnant wife. She looks radiant and divine. They lay side by side on a narrow bed, and her swollen belly moves in rythm with his tender thrusts from behind. He leans over to kiss her full on the mouth, open and gasping for breath.

Look at the people. These people. The Who's and You's and I's. Familiar with each other, and various colors. All breathe and breed, all hail some-who. All have names, and shades- yet refer to 'em .... as 'them' or 'these'.

Before we part
and you go your that way
while I stay

I ll write --
without borrowing rhymes,
with ease and grace
-- a few lines

A poem worthy of you

(first draft)

The un metalled road takes us down slowly. Its narrow, steep, and bendy. The shiny red 4 wheeler is dancing, jumping, and rocking down the death-track. Sharp cuts and high falls. The back seat ride is not comfortable, seats are at ninety degrees to the direction of our hesitant movement. With my back to the mountains, I can see the depths and falls bending inches away from the rear tires. Holding on with most of my strength, one hand on the seat handle and the other on the

Everyone
owns a digicam
an ipod, a regular mp3 player
mobile phones with video playback and
a large screen display

a myspaceontheinternetdotcom
a blog, a random song
a blue-green story, an orange-white tail
writer wits, artist hands
dancer charms, godly fits

Everyone can tell a lie
write a poem,
with sweet timing and sweeter rhyms
and
scribble on leftover sheets
with a fading blue pen

She came in through the back door. There were only three of us in the room. There was some talk of significance, which did not involve me.

'I am not playing hard to get.'

She roams around, laughs, sings a song.... she whistles out of tune, lightens the room, silently types, and delayes her response. She laughs...

'Yes, I want you to stay. Stay.'