I am no responsible,

for your perception.

What my fancy turns out,

I am in charge of my words. 

So when you proclaim,

about inception of my story,

Let me tell this, 

I play with words,

as my best companion.

Ain’t require no modifier,

just as plain as you arrange.


With love! To my Opa.


In this new village

several unlike faces,

Eyes started rolling

from one to another,

A face so peaceful

found it little odd,

Watching the crowd

saying less than all,

Became my quarry

for rest of evening,

A yen to  glance

for the love of moment,

An effort to reach

gentle touch of your palm,

Thus your silky wrinkled hand

clutched me from distance,

Tried myself to be open

dearth of words,

or say they are overrated,

We made an agreement

so you speak my brogue,

and I soak up your expressions,

My days get better

with glimpse of your smiling face,

You are, will be my only friend

every time I look around,

So don’t turn back

not to leave my hand,

Stay for a while

as are still untold stories,

laying in your self,

a letter on desk waiting to be send.

I long to listen it again,

as you say,’she is my lil girl’

Let melody in your voice

be my companion one more summer.

© ikbenmanisha25

(Dedicated to my grandpa, who is 91 years now)

I owe to myself


Nothing yet apparent

seems an usual outset,

Unless my anticipation

differs from yesterday.

I am no one to blame

nor put in castigation,

Rather an endeavor

in persuasion to summon,

Where you can stand

and feel the chaos,

Does your heart weep too,

or is barren as desert?

Your eyes are closed

with call of humanity,

I am in awe again

how your soul astride

by greed, poverty and war?

Your combat of survival

not your alone,

Take charge of your future

which belongs to your deed,

you’ve been pretending,

deaf all along, 

like your senses have no life,

You felt so comfortable in denial

but how you forget,

you owe to yourself,

better place on earth,

better life for all.

© ikbenmanisha25

(PC: Google Image)