Scribblings

Whenever you come

A poem writes me off 

From the pages of this over scribbled world.

I am but

The spaces you've touched.

Where it Ends

One should always start

Reading the poem

From the point where it ends.

Believe me

So much remains to be said.

The one for Bukowski

A lot of people
Are busy performing
Average love.
One can't even call it fake - 
They make it seem real.
Average love drains your soul
It expects a lot from you
What you are actually not.
Its worst thing?  -
It makes you feel good at times
Which is very bad.
Love is never meant to be good.
For that there are romantic movies.

Love has to kill you
One way or the other.
If it doesn't
It is not love at all.

Ignore

It's funny
How you wake up in the morning
Dress up
Walk out in the streets
Meet people who've a lot to say
People who've nothing to say.
Do your work
As if you were meant for that.
Walk back through nothingnesses
And cars and traffic jams
Through winking street lights
Reach home and realise
That it was that kind of a day
Which will blur down the memory lane
And one day cease to be.

Sometimes
I believe
The secret of making money
Is to be a good ignorer
If at all that's a word or a thing.

Ignore yourself.