Words

There is a perpetual sadness that resides in the deep recesses of poets' hearts. Like a landmine, it explodes when someone walks on it. The anguish and destruction are enough to damage them all over again. And yet like a Phoenix they rise. Smeared in the ashes of only one mistake - why did they let anyone enter their lives knowing too well it will be catastrophic? But then poets are humans. Humans need love above anything else. If  Maslow's  Law of  Hierarchy  wer e to be written again, poets would start from the middle. The need for love is greater than the need for food for them. It has always been like that. It will always be like that. Because poets can live without food for a week. Without love, they will perish into oblivion. They like the volcanic eruption of love - grand gestures when their lovers express love, wild and long orgasms on the bed and the subsequent ocean of pain in which they eventually drown. Poets, of all people, celebrate love in all its form...

 I thought I would write more. Basically, I’d have more free time for the creative juices to flow. And boy, was I wrong? I hope in the coming months, I get better with time management and can write more. I wrote these and some proses in the month of June. Date Published 06/11/2021 उफ़्फ़ ये तुम्हारा दफ़्तर से देर से आना और मेरे सुलगते अरमानो को थोड़ा और सुलगाना 06/16/2021 मचल रही है उँगलियाँ  तेरे मेरे जिस्म पे थोड़ा कोहराम हो  इन चादर की सिलवटों पे  थोड़े हम भी बदनाम हो 06/19/2021 दिन और रात का होश नहीं ना तारीखों का हिसाब रहता है जब इश्क़ में किसी का  दिमाग़ ख़राब रहता है  06/20/2021 इस इश्क़ में सब कुछ तेरा-मेरा है बस नाराज़ होने का हक़ सिर्फ मेरा है 06/21/2021 It’s beautiful to find someone who can undress you with his words and can reach your soul with a soft brush of his fingers.