Whose wine is it, anyway?

This poem is dedicated to a friend of mine whom I absolutely adore. Of course, there are times when I feel the urge to aim a punch at his stoic face. The only reason why I do not follow through with this urge is because his tough square jaw will fracture my fist. The stoic man will not wear his heart upon his sleeve.  He will show that he does not care,  and so, he will make you believe.    But beneath layers of stoic exterior, Is a gentle soul confined. A soul, which stirs and yearns,  Like souls of every kind.  A soul which won't directly praise, Your eyes or the curve of your hips.  But who will kiss you gently enough, to not smudge the gloss upon your lips.  A soul whose expressions- behind layers of sternness hide,  A soul that feels pain, hurt,  Heartache, passion and pride.  Because of his stoic exterior,  And predatorily menacing appeal,  He is largely misunderstood,  as someone who does not feel.  You may be lead to believe,  By his large, smouldering eyes,  That he is ind

Has the side of your head ever been scraped by an express train? Have you been blinded by the glare of oncoming traffic? If you've answered either or both of the above questions with a no, then go at once to your nearest cinema hall and catch a show of Messenger of God (MSG)  Unless you're a Dera Sacha Saudha follower, this movie is going to fuck your brains upside down. Sant Gurmeet ram Rahim Singh Insan, with his overgrown shoulder hair and shiny sequenced multicolored clothing, can make a royal enfield look bad. He flies in and out of situations, always landing on his feet or rather shiny bling laced kolaphuri sneakers.  He turns swords into rose petals and  makes Innovas crash into each other in a sort of gravity defying domino effect wreckage. His swanky cars have smiley faces on the bonnet, he has invented his own game, which is a strange mix of cricket and baseball. He tells the crowd that this game is an upgrade to the forgotten geeli danda, which he further adds is Ind

I  walked down the aisle, bouquet in hand and veil in tow. It was quite a task walking in pointy silver stilettos and I regretted having agreed to wear them.   Everyone was smiling and I could sense all eyes on me as I walked towards the Alter. He stood there with his hands pinned to his sides and his face, devoid expression. He was perhaps the only person in the chapel who wasn't looking at me. His eyes were fixed at some object in a distance. My stomach knotted, and my pace slowed down. I could feel my father tug at my arm. Imagine having cold feet while walking down the aisle. And imagine cold feet in stilettos!    My shoes turned into blocks of ice and I had to drag them forward. My father may have sensed my immobility, he tugged at me. I felt like an unwilling dog being dragged for a walk.   It was a good thing that my face was under a veil. It covered my trepidation and masked my expression of horror. As I reached the Alter after what seemed like an eon, I let go of my father

If I were a man, I'd be free  To ask a woman out for coffee But I'm a woman, I have to play coy And let the fieldwork be done by the boy I have to wait for him to make a move And only show that I approve I have to bat my lashes and display a pout And behave like a human sized trout  When he leans for a kiss, I'll have to push him away  And blushingly say "not today"  As a woman, society wants me to behave in a way To be demure, dignified and flirt in a womanly way But you know what, let society go for a toss This woman here, Neha D is her own boss  I'm going to be direct and forward And if that scares you, move along coward Im not going to sit around and wait  I'll be the one who'll ask you for a date I know I know, guys love the chase  But hey, I'm not a car, this is not a race!  God knows when you'll overcome your cold feet  So I'll be direct and very indiscreet  So if you like me, and I get the hunch  Il ask you out to dinner or lunch I