poetry contact


by niraj shah


It’s needing 8 fingers
and 4 feet
stepping on dry leaves.
And after walking 2 miles,
we’d come upon 1 promise,
such the one the moon has with the tides.
But, an emptiness such the distance between them,
is what I feel now..

it’s wanting 4 eyes
as 2 faces close in.
Only 1 wish would remain;
to never have this come to an end.
But the distance between our breaths
is my emptiness,
and I’m holding mine in..

it’s starving for 2 hearts
to feast on 1 love.
But there being
their beings
being antipodal,
it’s impossible.
It’s me,mpty..
it’s 1 kind of loneliness,

listless witness to the tic toc,
the moons lit with the sun drop,
and in between, all my breaths weren't sought.
So I thought,
let me go into my soul,
into this is
where there is
somthin' cherished,
unshared, if without merits.
a dimension
where nothing bad is mentioned,
and harmony and peace
aren’t far from me and out of reach,
all i have to do is,

So please don’t ask me to open my world,
for your words forwarded won’t move you forward toward my soul.
it will remain closed, for it’s one place I have complete control…
it’s one place, im safe,
…from your world.

Conscious minds,
you won’t find.
If everyone looks out for themselves,
who's gonna look at societal problems and delve?
The “invisible hand”
isn’t an admissible plan
when greed seeps deep, seeks and steals
to be more grand.
Demos kratos,
the hope’s lost ghosts;
the innocents,
left in a fall,
the victimless, safe in a vault.
Seems to denote,
fiefdom, isn’t over.
Still with the right to vote,
freedom, is a misnomer.
We’re presented with representatives unprecedentedly superlative..
Super! Let’s give
them the power
to speak on our
We have,
Let’s elect policies of persons,
as if there aren’t agendas
behind the curtains.
They work for votes in the guise of inclinations,
then win and delegate the task to the next administration.
Resounding un-accounting,
to debts,
crediting our eventual threats.
As they hold us in liability,
we lie in instability.
Currency’s on the decline,
and our hands are supine,
awaiting the feed of the next line.

Laid awake,
faced away
from the sunrays,
sheet covered face
as she waves,
one more daydream to delay the day.
Used to be the alarm screamed and he’d be
on his way,
now, he waits for an empty house,
then from the sheets, he’s out.
Although, still not out of danger,
there is the confrontation of the mirror;
introspection commences compunction,
still too shaken to realize it was never within his function.
Just an organism in a disorganization
which was
band aided even passed being bled dead,
mandated by a class seeing bread fed.
The innocent left in the fall,
the victimless at fault, to a fault.

two interviews
to view interred truths,
that, 'you work hard and be good
and you’d have from the world to choose'
he knew all expressions of hope to be platitudes,
and he
felt feckless, left lassitude.
A feeling worse,
wife brings home the purse.
He's just old fashioned,
fashioned to hold
his own…
never imagined he’d speak so low.
Dreads the thought of the dinner table,
to meet eyes,
the thought of his kids’ sights
of their father’s timid side
implodes his insides.
The thought of his wife’s compassion,
leaves his ego even more compromised…
Oh how he dies just hoping he could say,
“Honey, I’m at the office, I’ll be home at five”.