Poet in the Heart...

Highway keeps calling,
Telling me it is late,
‘come back and try to be a part…’

And the worst thing is,
To be the one hiding,
Telling ‘I don’t know where to start…’

There is nobody thinking with reason,
As all have been busy doing their part…

There is nobody happy this season,
As all have been living their lives apart…

There seems to be a,
Simple thing called heart,
One that keeps looking
For you to notice what it wants to do,
from the start…

All that it wants to
be is be happy,
And bring a smile upon your face,
that is all…

‘All that I look for is a smile,’
Says it with pain of being torn apart…

Somebody needs me, like I do, a walrus,
But the only one listening is a goat from the past…

There is lamb, running on water,
Past the rains of shame and,
Distance only brought between the hearts…

Somebody needs to
be out there,
Who would be the savior,
And save this journey that is there
without a start…

All that I see now,
Is an empty palace,

Groaning are empty hallways,
Without doors and people,
And a laugh…

So many players,
sang in the darkness,
But the only voice that remains,
Is of the poet in the heart…

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju

Orange Dreams...

From the deep wells of my mind,
to the dark room with the blinds,
the thoughts and the tangerines,
play a song of orange dreams...

With the crimson of the fruit,
and the blackness of my hoof,
the thoughts and the tangerines,
play the melody of orange dreams...

The guitar lay covered,
the webs and dust on top, showered...

The strings of my fingers' music,
lay, rusted and I, feeling sick...

Here I lay wondering,
if the Hula hoops were barbed rings...
And here I lay half asleep,
awake, yet to take a leap...

You see, I said,
the thoughts and the tangerines,
keep playing a song,
the tune from the orange dreams...

And here I lay half asleep,
awake and wondering what to play,
song for the dungeons, or the mind's keep...

But then again,
the thoughts and the tangerines,
I hear them play,
this song from the orange dreams...

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju

House of Cards

Here I sit, spaces between,
The moments of past and future unseen,
Here I linger, hitherto unknown,
Poised and in languor, telling the story untold…

The moments of toil must’ve been in past,
But the remnants of memories are things that last.
There might come a gale that destroys,
But the picture of what stood remains with joy…

There has been the moment where a little swoosh of air,
Or a lighted match, or water, I mean, everything that is fair,
Have rumbled the House of Cards built with toil,
Have taken that away, which has eaten my midnight’s oil…

But then again, my memories don’t cease,
A thing of past Card House might be,
But its image still lingers, and cherish I with ease,
a thing that could be and never is…

What is life, but a House of Cards,
Built through ages, through toil and labour hard,
Stands for an instant, crumbles in a sweep,
But the memories of what had been, never cease to sleep…

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju