Tell Me No More of Enchanted Days

You & I How can I think of forever with you? Do you see the dark shroud that hides my eyes, when I laugh at your teenage antics? Do you know how it feels to be so old gone, like a faded patch of denim? You're the leather, young, crazy, unknown... The boy under the window zooming around the street on his hi battery powered tricycle Admired for his innocence, for his recklessness, his mad spot of knee blood Rushing home to show off the day of gold, to his quiet, nagging mother Who remembers how it felt to dance with sweaty strangers in days of lust, once when she was not jaded by the past and the present Secretly envying and hating This boy of hers who knows not her pain her disfigured solitude. You come and go in my life, like the boy I could adopt, but would only feel sorry for, when he slept under his colorful quilt Seeing not the stranger watching him, in the middle of the night Wondering if she wanted more to be a mother or a wife? Deciding, then with the smoke around her ha

Rolling Stoned Ah! It's that time again when I start getting an itch in my feet. This happens usually every six months. Sometimes I survive it and stop myself from paying attention to it. But most of the times, I just put on my sneakers and run. Look for another job, plan another impulsive getaway, splurge madly, look for a new love - search for that different kind of adventure. This time, I want a new job. A better, more responsible, more creative, more paying job. Don't we all? I know I can either get job satisfaction or moolah. So, half a year I try the money, the other half I sip coffee and pretend to be creatively spent. About the getaway, I think it's time for that too. The city gets to me after a while. So, just pack your bags, give the urban structures a haughty look and run. But like a dog who's tired of roaming the streets and peeing on strangers' cars, I get back, tail in my legs, back home. When I was 22, my dad used to say, "You are an escapist.&qu

For the little ones... This night, that one, One touch...one feel So many years and nothing sets anyone apart It's just the mess It's just the sweat It's just a thrust It's just a bed Love comes again In another name It's not the love It's just the sigh, the slow, soft moaning of a woman who's felt the same so many times before It's not the girl, the naive purity partner It' s not the whore Turning face away In self satisfied detachment It' s just the woman What's that word called love? What juvenile delusions, better left behind When you grow up, you learn to move on Little girls in little worlds Learn to grow wings someday It's not a bitch disilluioned or dead It's just learning It's just sex