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

Things that don't glow...

I smile the past away,
I always look this way...

I talk along the way,
and the laughter creases my face...

I spend the nights so cold,
with a pretense inside my soul...

I feel the bright sun, shine,
and all that's hidden entwined...

There is always a reason to show,
a mask that I don't know...

There is always a reason to smile,
though laughter just makes you tired...

There is always a reason to know,
that when you walk away in the snow,
you might leave that place,
but the prints will always leave a trace...

You may smile as if you know,
but your shadow will never glow...

It will remain a faithful mirror,
showing the image of the buried sore,
frozen in the past's dirty snow...

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju

A Walk down the hallway...

Here walking down the hallway,
wearing casts, weighed down by the mask...
The little yellow glitter of the gloomy lamp,
shining blood-like, dull and ominous...

The limbs, all bleeding, buckling under the tales,
stories of happenings, unknown there in gargoyle
guarded homes...

Standing erect, inspite of cuts and bruises,
inspite of the swollen wounds, oozing liquids,
devil's own. Satanic pain searing through the body,
and a darkness consuming the long hallway,
and yet, walking down the hallway...

The chilling silence, and the echo of footsteps,
driving sanity away, along with the gaze, into that distance...
And down that hall, yet, with all earnest attempts,
succeeding to stand up yet again, after a failed attempt
to catch back the fast losing sound.

Once stood up,
the walk continues,
as if it never stopped,
with a dying yellow light of a candle;
and dark distance to traverse, that
in darkness remains...

Karthik Adithya Singaraju

The Kid with mismatched gloves...

I am a kid, a little one at that,
with a pair of mismatched gloves,
and a cap, tad smaller than my scalp.

I tried to do away,
be done with whatever I had to,
with my lunatic rant,
but then again, couldn't help...

I wear an overlarge sweater,
which protects my insides,
from a cold place I got to survive.

I am just a guy, with a torn jeans,
unsure which way to go, to make it fit right.
I tell you, things are distasteful,
and they freak people out.

But then again, I figured,
in my clumsy movements,
there lied what Emily tried to describe,
before she died.

You know, it is very funny,
that after all this time,
while I tried to figure what is wrong,
on the outside,
it turns, it was my turn,
to push it all aside.

Move away, lock in the corners,
warm in their cold comfort,
huddled, where I could meditate,
and there wouldn't be any bug,
or even a beautiful butterfly,
feeding on the sack of fungus,
rich and ripe.

Then again,
I was just a kid from some corner,
with mismatched gloves,
noone would ever try...


© Karthik Adithya Singaraju

Where it never snows...

There goes the carrion cries, ever elegant...
And thence the vulture,
the monster scavenging upon the passed...
And there goes the wild albatross,
flying over the horizon,
and the seagulls' crying,
bidding a warm farewell to the sun,
who leaves, having finished his day's work...
The peacock is flaunting its hue,
and the owl waking up...

All in their place,
but a young flightless penguin...
In the rocks of tropics rejected,
searches hopelessly for snow,
and the warmth of its cold...

Little does he know,
tropics are empty,
and he is there,
flightless,
where it never snows...

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju