Manish Pathania | Author

Writer | Traveler | Artist

To Hank


Hank said,
don’t try,
and I had not been trying for more than 80 days now.

Hank said
it will come out gushing,
from your gut,
it hasn’t.

What is my next move?
Should I keep waiting for the lizard on the wall,
to come to me,
or should I get up,
pick up a broom,
and force her to move?
I guess,
I didn’t understand you,
you dirty old man,
you goddamned genius,
don’t try,
and do not fail,
don’t try
and die the mediocre life,
don’t try
and suffocate thoughts inside,
don’t try
to write,
but hold the pen,
every now and then,
and let the words suck,
as much as they possibly could,
one day,
it may,
be called the work of a genius,
it was a diary of a madman,

Girl in the cafe


There she sits,
in the middle of the cafe
-by the river side, 
and looking at the performing musician
-one she is with,
and trying to find her identity,
in someone else’s notes.
Bits by bits,
she crushes the pieces
of hashish
into her petite hands,
hoping no one notices her,
except for one,
she is looking at
with her drugged hypnotic eyes.
But she forgets
that her elegance is
much more melodious
than the notes
that she believes are
defining her.
Soon her fake identity
will disappear in the
white smoke,
in to the thin air,
on to a bed
and in to an oblivion
but not her elegance…

Our shared loneliness


Words can,
I cannot,
into a poem,
but long after the dust had settled,
and perpetual haze
had cleared out,
you would find me
waiting for you,
right where you left me.
For it was easier for me
to blame you for going,
than sulking in guilt
for letting you go.
the noise anxiety would attenuate,
and silences would whisper my name in your ear,
don’t be afraid to follow them home,
to me,
to us,
and our shared loneliness.