What Good Is Love

I waited for your love in hope, That ours would come again,
And make me feel the things I felt, When we were one, back then.
But time and distance have erased, The things I wished anew,
And now I find myself alone, I am standing here without you.


What good is love, that does not touch, What good is love, that gives you pain.
What good is love, that makes you run, And makes you lost out in the rain.
I traveled to another world, Out far beyond the one we knew,
I thought that I could live again, And now I find I'm back without you.


But what of hearts that beat as one, And what of passion and embrace,
Is it too much to ask of you, To make these tears of mine erase.
What good is love, that doesn't touch, What good is love, that gives you pain.
What good is love, that makes you run, And makes you lost out in the rain.


Too painful this - to journey back, To times of love and laughter free,
The times we lay together with, A sense of you , a sense of me.
So now, I journey on alone, Forever wandering, in my thoughts,
And I shall ask you once again, What good is love.

Oh! Ever so Blue!.....Never So Blue !!!!

So I made a mistake many days ago, When I walked out that silly door,

I should have known I’d never get far, I should have left that door ajar!

But Alas! Today that door is shut. I wish I could open it but....

I know I rendered you a really deep cut, I really wish I could go back in time,

We could have made it, I’ll bet every dime. Crazy, huh? How time has changed?

And yet, I turn my thoughts to you, And tear up and become Oh! Ever so Blue!

I hate myself for what I did to us, I wish I had never caught that bus.

It took me miles away from you, To a land which I never knew,

I fell in love with a soul so young, I thought it was love, to her I clung.

I was so sure, I had always loved you true, I thought you would never bring me to rue.

Today, I stand beneath the pouring rain, Hoping it will wash away my guilty stain.

My thoughts, vivid and clear, turn to you, I tear up and become Oh! Ever so blue!

I searched for you, for so long my love, I Begged and pleaded with the man above.

You filled my heart with such exquisite joy, I folishly moved on, we are now so estranged.

I want to fight for what we had, I want to make you ever so glad.

I’ll help you nurse the wounds I’ve caused, It’ll be like our life was just temporarily paused.

Today I came to plea for you to rid my pain, My heart is torn and thriving for you,

The tears are falling hard! Girl! You make me Blue!

Must We... Really ??

Must we really live the lives ?

The lives we describe on every single line.

The unending tears we scattter on every page.

The anguish, heartaches, sorrows…and the pain.

What makes a reader willing, to read each word, each line?

Are they really able to relate, saying ” Hey this is my life!”

When a poet writes of joyous times, of happiness & free-flowing wine,

Do the readers read that too, with a smile?

What if I find the need, the need to just be myself.

Would what I write be the same, would it be ever read.

Or would they plainly reject, terming the topic to be lame and often read?

These questions I ask, quite poetic ones you see.

To write as a poet… Must We?

Mr. Anonymous ... Not Any More

I used to work for that guy they call Mr. Anonymous.
I gave him my talent and he took my name away.
“You don’t want to be yourself, do you? It’s not worth having an identity.
It causes you pain and suffering. You have to fight back and out too much.
People hammer you back when you stand out; You die a new death every day.
Let somebody else have the identity. I'll let you have your say ”


It worked, for a while. Everything was smooth and flat, no waves. Calm.
I was the one, everyone called the ghostwriter. The guy behind the scenes.
I wrote the words that others used.Then one day I looked in the mirror and saw nobody.
It was Mr. Anonymous looking back at me. I didn’t like it. I wanted MYSELF back.


I thought, what’s wrong with my opinions? I have opinions I want to express.
My opinions. Not the opinions of someone else. Vengeance.
I’m Munish Sharma, world. I exist. From now on, I shall put my name on everything.
This is Munish Sharma’s poem. This is Munish Sharma’s space.
Munish Sharma’s air. Munish Sharma’s day. Munish Sharma is here, right now.


There’s never going to be any other like him. This is it, somewhere he is, the one and only.
Catch him now, accept no substitutes, No ghostwriters, hacks, no imitations of any kind.
He used to work for Mr. Anonymous.. But today he quit.
Let Mr. Anonymous steal somebody else’s identity.
Munish Sharma dares to have his identity back.