The Day I Knew I Wasn't A Poet

I will never be good enough
For you.
These words
Are dirt.
Compared to her words of gold.

I cannot write about politics and drama and Bollywood and come up with witty one-liners or write monologues and digress occasionally.
My words are no more than what I feel.
My words are what I feel.
Feelings?
"Amateurs write about their feelings when they write poetry."
I should have learnt to dress up the 'I' in six foot long red silk cloth.
Unrecognisable.
I failed.

We will never have a fight
Over you.
Because I quietly dug a grave for my 12 day dream and laid it to rest.
Newly-dead.

The first day I saw you
I knew you were too good to be true.
But I buried you under.
And I never looked back and I never missed it.

Till today.
When I saw and smelt and felt
What it is that will never be mine.

A quiet devotion
flared up from nowhere and engulfed my left brain.

If I didn't know better
I'd say I'm hopelessly devoted to you now.
I don't want to write.
I don't want to win.
But please, please, please
Let me stay
here.

Read Your Mind.

Eye in the Sky

Jack of all trades.
Master of some.
Not this, though.
My left hand couldn't help me.
And my right hand wouldn't.


And obviously because this can't be an original idea- I'll tell you what inspired me.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-1IXQ1pKl_Q

You.

Your breath intoxicates- cinnamon and spice.
Your eyes pierce- a burnt black ice.
Your skin blooms- orange-blossom in spring.
Your voice warms- dripping honey within
My heart.

Flame joins flame
And starts a blazing fire.
Burning tear-drop
After tear-drop.
Eyes overwhelmed with desire.

Yearning for what I touch but can't seem to hold.
Lost and lonely firefly shut out in the bitter cold.

My mind soars free, unfettered, undeterred,
What you paint in colour,
I create now with words.