Poetic Wish

Its the perfect time for poetry.
I have not done anything
for the last three days
in hope of regaining my creativity

The poet can sleep for days on end
and claim that he is thinking
he is working
and the claim is true
for what is a poet
but a person trying to describe his own reflection
looking at a mirror stained by his perception

No doubt what he writes makes sense
only to him and to people like him
and to those who think it makes sense
because they see a shadow and think it is theirs

And if the poet succeeds in making fools
of thousands and thousands
he can make a living
and claim to be above all and intellectual
and people will worship him and put him
on a tall pedestal and the girls
will woo him and sleep with him
and slowly destroy his ability to
delude the world and himself that he is great.

And me, in writing this poem
am delusional
am crazy
am pure ennui
and hope this will make some girl
want to sleep with me.

by Harish Suryanarayana

PS: Inspired by Charles Bukowski's poetry

Where is she ?

Where is she ? Where is she ?
I need a hand to hold.
The rain drop, solitary
The rain drop, dead
Its sad, one after the other
single and dead.

Where is she? Where is she?
I cant just sit and be
the soft touch of her
damp lovely skin
No more rain!
No more of this !

Where is she? Where is she?
A gentle nudge, hot coffee
Rain ! Rain !
Don't do this to me !
Don't push me off the cliff
I am trying to flee

Where is she? Where is she?
She is not here
She is not with me
She does not exist
She does not see
She will never be here
I will never be me.

-Harish

Alone

Late evening.. sunset
I drove towards the sea
the vehicles that passed by me
cast momentary shadows...
only momentary...

Her

How can I tell you about her
Being a mere mortal,
my senses are not enough
to take in the expanse of her beauty
Lost in her tousled black hair
for days and days
I search for salvation
And then a word from her
and I am lost again
in the sweetness of her voice
Why does she tease me like this ?
Like a fantastic poem,
every time I meet her
she is different, or is it me ?
And I spend all my time
trying to figure out her puzzles
imaginary problems with no solution
while she spends her days in bliss
Every night, before I sleep
I only hope she knows.
I only hope she knows.