I listen to the braying of my heart


It beats without permission

This mechanical piece of passion

And when the world around me gives up

And the dreams are falling apart

I listen to the braying of my heart


The candles they burn out

At the turn of that last page

My story remains unread

In the depth of the dark

I still listen to the braying of my heart


My mirror it stares

A boorish sight it beholds

Hollow eyes on a blank canvas

While they deafen out my soul’s talk

I listen to the braying of my heart


The hands are now numb

The world passed me by

As my soul turns weary

And legs give up the walk

I listen to the braying of my heart


I am. I am. I am.

From Anne to Sylvia

We walk through our valleys of fear
Into the dying dawn
It’s all just peaches and pears
Until you find everything around was wrong

First it’s hundreds then thousands in the mind
The thoughts of death
Running crazy and blind
“We are not to die”, she said

“Not so quickly in life”
I am in a deeper myth my friend
For you I walked past the knife
Little, of course, can you say to this

You who embraced it like a friend
You who looked past the ignorance
Straight into a peaceful end
You who claimed it away

You don’t get to take what’s mine
Or is it yours too?
For now I will be fine
But one day I shall seek you out

No poetry or prose
Can cut me through the sorrow
Of a burial rose
O Sylvia

You are nothing and everything
You are my dark horse
Wrapped around a noose ring
I will come over, come over one day
O Sylvia, one day’s today today…

P.S: For those who don’t know their story Anne Sexton and Sylvia Plath were best friends and they openly spoke of confessional poetry and the idea of suicides that they were constantly plagued with. This here is my tribute to the friendship

To Sylvia

She conquers death everyday
lives to see the bloodstains
the slit wrists
everyday the window is darker
and the house lonelier still
She walks down the stairs creak
indomitable sounds of the night
tear through the silence
every night a new dream dawns
of white lights and what not
Mornings return unforgiven
The smoke settles and the drinks drain
The emptiness back
and wounds reopen
the world seems ugly
and her soul uglier still
Trapped in a Bell Jar
the world is far away
noises fade away
and the house is a silent friend
And then one day
when the jar will break
and the rug blood red
will welcome the uninvited guest
The world was always
too beautiful, too ugly
all in the same life!