Soul found in this world of old,
May not be what you have been told.
To find a soul,
As old as mine, would be a journey.
A mission finished in time,
While running on faded blurred out lines.
To find a soul,
as old as mine.
I would have to run the lines of time,
to see the soul, waiting there.
Waiting there for me.
Christmas has come ,
another year has passed and
another is yet to come ,
things have been lost and
things are yet to come but , who knows
what in life will be done .
5 days you have to pack your past ,
leave all the burdens and sorrows
and yet a different light cast .
Pray a little not to God but yourself
for you deserve not the better but the best ,
Believe and have a little faith in life
and eventually everything will fall in line.
For more poems reach out to Instagram @thehiddenwriter
self destruction of words was
a ligament that only you used
it was like a swarm of mosquitoes
stinging your cold skin
a dictionary baptizing flames
an electric fume going through your throat
a sickening achievement that caused you
to leave me exposed
but my poetry isn't always about me
the curves of your neck, your eyelashes that flutter.
the brown in your eyes, the barely there pink of your chapped lips.
the bumps on your cheeks, the smoothness of your hands.
the width of your shoulders, the space between your eyebrows.
the way your shadow looks as the spotlight's on you.
van gogh, da vinci, munch, and michelangelo,
they'd all be ashamed,
for they could never make art in the form of you.
My wish more than my wonder...
Do you feel it when I touch you with a virtual touch?
Through this endless radius calibrated in miles?
Through our wake and sleep in opposite world clocks of time?
Do you hear that clang of Something merging Somewhere?
Chunks of you and me,
A noiseless meteorite collision in a deaf space,
An alien vacuum pulsating with wavelengths of shared reverence ,
Birthing an uncanny nucleus, a chain reaction for thirsting,
Helpless effervescence in the test tube of rights and wrongs,
This peculiar rejoinder of an organic equation,
Our mutual diamond delicately concealed in the coal-d heart of commandments.
I try to simplify, turning to basic mathematics for hope,
Learnt in nascent classrooms, a straight line- shortest distance between two points,
sit down to draw one, between us, juvenilely trying to connect you to me,
I stop, when I realise, that I cannot even do that,
for I have lost myself.
Can you tell me where?
Walking through the mist
Barely seeing anything but haunting faces,
Making me feel as though I am a time traveller,
Caught in a present where he does not belong,
As an integral part of an experiment he had no choice in joining,
And when he hits the line between chaos and order
With enough force to divorce such fault, and mix it,
It becomes himself.
It becomes me
So thank God for this mist
That I may not see the evil that is me,
And live the good that is the rest
On the tube,
on the Jub-
Out of ten - nine,
or maybe eight,
if not seven.
Tube ain't heaven
more like hell,
I'd give it six
out of ten,
no, five, man,
four, or less,
three, it's a mess
two I'd give,
one, oh, no,
can't breath now,
of ten, ouch,
let me out,
let me out!