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Nov 2017 · 598
An Apple a day,
Can keep the innocence away.
Nov 2017 · 550
Lame Theory.
Can you define, define?

Can you hate, hatred?

Can you lose, what is lost?

Can you ******, upon trust?

Can you water your wants?

Can you review your rants?

Can you define, elaborate?

Can you hate, hatred?
Nov 2017 · 139
When you wake up and you have 600 clothes to wear,
enough thread notes to curl your hair,
parmesan, strawberries and indigo red wine,
You should innovate for such an absolute reason to rhyme.
Nov 2017 · 375
Coca Kala.
Fair and lovely.

No I am black and ****!

Oh! Sure you are? What does the law say?

I listen to the vagabond winds, which barks at the youth of the bay.

Sunset? Glimpses of eternal youth?

Keep your gratitude!

I am the landscape of a lie, what does the law say?

Young and human at any given day.

Drink the bottle of law!

Ceaseless motion, see saw!

Discord you mean?

Black as a cat, **** and thin!

I would rather call you- anything!
Nov 2017 · 88
Burnt Bread.
Nov 2017 · 212
Demand supply,
Absent present.
To suffer is to exist.
The surprise of a surplus,
In nature.
Nov 2017 · 295
Wild Horses.
The east was drenched in the color of liquid gold,

The waters of the river were lapping against-
the edges of all the boats,

The sun and his soft beams,
had the coolness of the dawn,

And the toe of the river,
was tracing patterns under the rocky shoals of time,

But still, The coward has always been a beast of burden.
Nov 2017 · 163
Death Drive.
High speed. Shouts and screams.
Cool air, and the art of lost rhythms.
Make up, blush, black doozy mascara,
An overdose joint production!
Nov 2017 · 72
Just when the caterpillar thought-
that the world was over,
It was turned into a butterfly.
Oct 2017 · 179
Moss Grows Fat.
One should not confuse motion with progress,
A rocking horse moves,
But it can never feel the pleasure,
Of a linear growth.
Oct 2017 · 89
Miss Misery.
Well, If you have cancer, I will be by at your side,
And, If you have gaping holes-
and you worry like a fool, you can tell them to me tonight,

I wouldn't care,
If you have a Burger,
and well, I might just take one bite from you,
If you're frightened enough, I
would be there, to lighten your life, it's true!

Trust me, If you're going to the world out there,
all alone,
I Would be wanting
to steam out all the trouble
with just a small tipsy fare,
If you're a pizza,
then I would be a stain of cheese on your shirt,
I would praise you
just before the rush of a ten thousand years flood.

to breathe, and bake and branch out like a tree,
I can be the interest of your heart,
and I can bid goodbye
to the process,
of such a compounded misery.
Oct 2017 · 82
Let us transfer some
pressure from the bottom of my brain,
Let us look like beauty
as they're seen in movies, my friend.
Let us wander
around the forest of doom and death,
Let us seek
the pleasure of easy money and fictional regrets!

Let us assume
that an iron gate might be able to die,
Let us attach
the gloss of hate and a humdrum in a dice,
Let us disdain fortune and-
be the serpent underneath,
Let us be like beautiful people,
as they're shown in movies,
in brief!
Oct 2017 · 105
Are you home from the sea?
Did you sing the slow melody?
You've Weathered a storm, your heart unafraid,
You've Crossed every ocean in the boat that you made.

And all the glory falls around you,
You do not know the story of an age, untrue!
And there up in the sky,
The stars fritter like encrypted codes,
Wishing to hearten a timid lamp, you see?

Are you home from the sea?

And the vagabond wind whispers over the bay,
The songs and the laughter are carried away!

Far from the mysteries of roasted profit and games,

Are you home from the sea?
Would you sing the sweet melody?
Oct 2017 · 354
Open Up.
I Dig, You Dig, We Dig,
They Dig...

It's not a beautiful poem,
But it's very deep.
Oct 2017 · 125
The sea turns white,
Like a diamond too bright,
Like a death too dear,
The seething eclair.

The sun burns like a bomb,
An artistic womb,
A warm cozy place, with no memories,
In front.

The roads were in two,
The ruminations were true,
Like a rocking horse moving with motion and force,
But no progress or life to feel the sea.

Mirrors in my room,
And the nature is in bloom,
Like a fortune at sight,
The sun was clean and bright!

I became death, like a wavelet in pause,
Of all reasons I am, I am the effect of effort and cause!
Oct 2017 · 91
When there's a wheel,
There's a way!
Oct 2017 · 126
The reasonable tragedy lies in the fact,
That there is no such thing called-
an invincible summer!
And You fantasize about A Pi? A rotation?
Oct 2017 · 114
"Clouds fly high above the ground,
And I am a matchbox trying to burn the whole forest down."

"Don't you like greyish green? Do you mind an effeminate sin?"

"Please, hark the chords of faith, farewell to the newest gloss of hate!"

"Not yet, you're going out to stand alone on the ocean to sink down all the ships"

"But was I not a matchbox trying to burn down all those castles of retreat?"

"Good, now, chew the essence of worth, and bid goodbye to those sinking voices in the dark.."

"But colors. My colors where would they go?"

"I mean 86 dimensions for this show?

"Metanoia? You mean? A war to room all falsities?"

"No, but you won't mind some fiction, would you?"

"As true as an age. And ages and ages on a dead planet, untrue"
Oct 2017 · 94
Wilde Facts.
I can resist everything, but,
Not temptations!
Oct 2017 · 70
I was born to do three things,
Eat good food, check out hot women,
And waste some time.
But then happened poetry, and pastel colors and more,
Of which I couldn't ignore!
Oct 2017 · 166
The Kid.
Cut your nails and brush your teeth,
Eat your food, and take your seat,
Check your box, and fix those knots,
Clean your shoes, and pull up your socks.

Read your books and play at 4,
Park that parachute of fooleries,
Receive a hug from ye, mother at nine,
Little miss kid, you're doing just fine.

Here and there a mischief or four,
Break your sister's mascara box,
Eat some biscuits and chocolates,
Bless you kid, that's innocence.

Once you grow, and groups and gags,
Farces comedies would relapse,
Tragedy harpers the bazaar of rust,
Bless you kid, never get old!

Young and free and meek and mild,
Cleans my soul and I can smile.
Oct 2017 · 97
I have a mountain to climb,
And, I have a desert to design.

I am a forest without a soul,
And I am young and I am old.

Comfortable in a room,
A power window with a powdered view,
Five fuzzy skulls.
Fresh air, force.

Hermits meditate along the lines-

I am old and I can be young like peoples_you see,
And, I went to the lights, to sell my body for such a mystery.

And you beg for options?
Oct 2017 · 177
Hausu of Cards.
Cameras were invented to capture memories,
And to not burn memory space.

An essence, and its immediate objective essentiality.
Oct 2017 · 233
Rule of Thirds
"Between one and infinity,
I have always cherished the desire to free."

"An artist you mean? You mean philosophy?"

"Nope, but a wage laborer, working in a manufacturing industry?"

"Ha! There you made the point, friend,
Welcome to reality!"

"Anything else? Or should I just go?"

"You're living high, and moving slow."

"I mean, you know! anything else you want to analyze?"

"Nope you can leave your memories, just remember to never be an artist, that's it! Goodbyes"

"You see, Stars can never hide their fires,
For, An artist can never die with wild and deep desires. Goodbye mr.heckles! See you tomorrow!"

"Okay, it's late you must now go, you're getting late for the word salad!"

Moves out to the window, stares at the wall to burn his shelf of selfs!

Oct 2017 · 129
In Bloom.
It all, actually comes down to a single choice, really.
To be innocent like a softly spoken Blooming tale,
at night.
You can Sell the meaning for art's sake.
You can Read and rejoice and remark like a story,

Walking within the measured lines,
all but circling against the plot.
And, thus Nature is in Bloom.

And The Principle of a behavior is,
****** out from the marrows of life.

And You scream like an idiot, an experienced fool, you are! for him-
there's a script of skinny tales,

And, Nature is In Moody Blues, My Friend, again.

Like dizzy doses of death and weary wallets of wishes,
you hear a whisper of grunge.
Sauce and butter and eggs for Lunch.
Walking within the measured lines, you are circling against the plot.

You can Nurture the secrets of stars from,
up above.

Joy, O! joy,
Bleed like a metaphor, a maze of magic moss-
and there are red violins for beats,
Cheap and sold the meaning in brief.

Eating the doses of measured griefs and groans,
And, Nature is In Moody Blues, My Friend, again.

Talk like a glassy shade of impermanence at sight,
I can find a mountain to climb,
A soft nestling place where a sickly smoggy winter craves,
For Breeze and beats and boxes of hope.

For, My Nature is In Moody Blues, My Friend,
to clean the little bruises on my soul.
Oct 2017 · 98
Dingy dongy tiki tiki,
Boomy doomy  hissy pi,
Hushy hushi, pluckahchaki,
Traki doomy criihh.

Chipy Gippy farafashhh,
Micky mucky boooo eeh ah,
Dingy dongy hikipiki,
Boomy zoomieka.
Oct 2017 · 195
The Idler.
The king in the courtroom boasted like a bird,
"I can sing like a Nightingale, if I stay a bit alert,
I mean alert about the notes and pitches and scales,
Heigh **! You pianist play some music that sells."

The piano made music as soft as a feather too bright,
G sharp major said the singer at sight.
"Yes Monsieur, surely and at once,"
And the king went on singing like a donkey in a trance.

Etched and wavy, and linings of link less placed tones,
The pianist went on smiling, as if the king was like a dog with all his bones,
And the courtroom listened and everyone was but happy, "there, go gentle gales."
And The king nodded to the music, as a dog wags his tail.

Everyone clapped like a good old cheers to the king,
The pianist went over to say, "Monsieur! O! Monsieur you are the only one who can sing."
The queen kissed his hand and greeted him all the way,
But it was music and the piano who had nothing else to say.

Next morning, the town knew that the king sang out loud and good,
And they told their families that all music might be dead, but not the king as it never should.
Oct 2017 · 101
No Reply.
"These days you are not at home, Somu,
The rooms seem blackened like a dying dumb ghost,
dead and deaf like an ageless planet, you see.
The walls breathe silence,
like flowers which bend with the rain,
And, I twist and age with time like grapes of wrath.

Dear somu, I saw you in the photo, on Facebook dear boy,
To be honest you have become fat, like your mother when she was six,
Eat less cheese and burgers and cream, to fix these things,
Try veggies and salads to make you look thin.
I am storing up some money, this year,
To send you some sweets,
During puja, we had fried chicken and fish kebabs and rolls,
I made it as you liked it, a bit saucy with corn flour and chickpeas and all,
Next time when you come, I would make it again"
Read the letter,
Signed, Your grandma Mini.

Somu, as known as Somnath at his college, MIT to be honest you see.
A good student and an economist to be soon,
Somu is told to be the young Stiglitz,
Who gets a bit sentimental at certain gloomy afternoons.

But this letter came to him last Monday, at work,
He couldn't read it properly as being busy is the way to look more and a bit more, tough and sharp.
And as he came home today at nine,
Like whiskey and lemon and contradictions which never seem to rhyme-
came another Telephone at around ten,
Informing the youngster about the death of one of his grandparents.

"This is Baba, Your Mini is no more,
Today at six, we found her collapsed at and over the toilet floor,
Come home as soon as you can..."

And He was Still holding the letter,
helplessly within the shivering thrills of his cold and goofy tired hands.

It was 11 at night and he was reading the letter once more,
He was all but telling to himself-"this must be a dream to be sure..."
He was thinking about so many things at a pace,
And he felt about the world that he brought his Mini some disgrace.
Oct 2017 · 305
The key to happiness is lower expectations,


Much lower,

There you go!
Oct 2017 · 78
Bought and Sold.
Winter breaks my heart,
Stops at my door, while she flirts like a *****,
Bleached like a paper,
Soaks in all light,
Brimming with puerile and infantile tales,
Winter! O  winter! You break my heart.

I look out for care and sun burnt mirth, I extend my hands,
To the distance of heights,
I partly cross the station of pointed conversations,
And my moon smiles and nods,
Like a lucky charming dream.
Winter, my fractured existence,
Lives and dies, within.

I am born with cash,
I get old and young with leaves of grass,
I blow out the smoke, visceral tubes, you see,
Winter breaks my heart,
Like an aged old ghost,with jovial histories.
Oct 2017 · 168
The Text.
"May his liver be turned into water,
And his bones crack in the cold of his heart,
May dog fennel grow upon his ancestor's graves,
And the grandsons of his children be born without eyes.

May whiskey turn into clabber in his mouth,
And every time he sneezes,
he would blister the soles of his feet,
And the smoke of his pipe, may it make his eyes water,
And the drops fall on the grass that his cows eat,
And poison the butter that he spreads on his bread.

He would die like a stranger to the beauty of such an,
existential Dread."
Oct 2017 · 276
"Wake up in the morning,
and go for a jog," said the doctor over the phone.

"Okay Sure and Anything else Sir?"- I pretended to try.
"Oh yes cut out sugar and whiskey and rye...
Don't eat mutton, stay away from those chops and cheese...”

And I thought to myself "Yeah, why, thank you,
I need more sleep and crates of ice cream if you please?"
I thought again-
"Yeah, maybe, maybe I am fat, and have high blood pressure, and all-
But the doctor doesn't understand,
about the beauty of leisure at all!"

"I am lazy, and I don't like work,
Please, one more pizza? Burp...”

But then I think about living with life,
moving on, going on, all yo! these things,
this and that, and stripes of hate on an existential being?

The world’s a meeting room adorned with smelling salts and meds,
the doctor yet again continued:
"you should exercise every day, as it is said."

But I am lazy you see,
as lazy as a snail,
And, to be honest? I need more cream and cheese,
While watching TV and biting off my nails.

The doctor kept on saying about-"happiness and endorphins and love..."
And all I was but thinking-" Then, Why did God create Pizza, with love from up above?"

And I did put down the phone,
ordered another meal, so-called food.
You see, I was happy with life,
and was ready to seize the meaning, of being better than good!
Oct 2017 · 109
Eat some hate and ***** out love,
Sleep like sickening droopy doomed roads,
Feel and gorge and shout out hope,
Wash and clean and brush your soul.

Thick like fat and soft as sponge,
Take that browser up your tongues,
Search for form and facts and flicks,
Eat some time and ***** out things.

Innately curved and clasped under locks,
Presently situating obtuse points,
Silver smokes and a street light farce,
Shivering veins snort doses of curse.

Light more light, and lots of light,
Thin loose layers of lost parodies,
A burden is a blessing, with youthful laughs,
With fat and glycerine things get stabbed.

Eat some love, ***** out fat!
Sep 2017 · 136
I try.
"What do you write? Poetry?" asked the teacher,
And he continued-"Why ain't you trying anything else?"
Well, I was baffled, and I thought-" I write,
Poetry, Yes it doesn't sell."
"I know that"-That's what I said.

For a moment he glared at my hands
and looked around for something more,
He was staring at the broken walls and the memories,
of vicissitudes, which were scattered all over the floor.

He resumed again with an essence of pride,
acquired in taste- "what else do you do?
Don't you like playing games?
Boys of your age, go the field and takes up a batter,
with bowling techniques..."

I was baffled again, thinking to myself-
"More Poetry? Please?"

But I was silent on my lips, as my thoughts were shy,
I told to the teacher-"Yeah Cricket, I might try."

He lost the art of conversing in a rhyme-
And he exclaimed, dolefully-"Try Poetry, maybe another time."

And all I was but thinking was about this thought,
I know I don't sell propagandas which might seem to be hot.

And, he left the chair, the class was but over,
I thought "to make an attempt to creativity,
Which is both acceptable and sober?"

And Like all other days, the birds were all chirping,
The engines were roaring, and the sky as casting the bluest shade,
But, you see,
I write poetry which kisses the butter with a blessed blade.

I write poetry, I try to do so,
Scripts of screaming tales which you might not even know.
Sep 2017 · 119
It has been a thrashing defeat lately,
they have been
Charred, and Burnt, and burnt and triple tossed!
And they’re still;
Munching and mincing the mundane motion of hatred-
to burn again, to burn profusely, a bit too more in their fiery lake of remorse.

They have been an admixture of life, loss, and liberty,
but they still seek to spread the mirage of a thousand dreams,

And, I have been a character underneath the hazy shades of appearance,
sleeping for a thousand years or more,

I could have been a mirror which trembles at the passing of hunts and hordes.

I have all been a fatty fuzzy Butter between burnt baggy loaves of bread,
And an edgy elite Ox dreaming essentially, incessantly,
to flutter like a doped dreamy butterfly.

But, their waves of cadence do not reach any height!
From that squalid catalog of their mistakes,
they gain nothing, seriously,
by stringing together, solemnly, their tattered pieces of life,
their vague memories of solitude,
and transcendental brightness,
they gain nothing, nothing but small pieces of an insatiable pleasure.

“This has been a complex composition of a Phenomenon, as you see.”-
said Michelangelo
“They would seek for a gigantic yawp!
There was nothing to be meant at all!” – said she, with perfect normalcy!

Coming down the road, all alone,
all covered with water and pebbles and mud,
People, as I see, talk of muddy days, diseases and the decease of success!
A slight fuzzy wind blowing into my face!
And the light on my door harpers the state of falsity.
I try prioritizing peace and calmness. She tries eating salads.
They try to wait for a better basic tomorrow.

Everyone in the world was so doomed to happiness.
Their Morality was-
A mad- mad-
Maddened gaslight on those bloodstained walls!
They do not have anywhere to go;
I do not roam around anymore like a wild solid pig,
they do not sit down on the sofa with hope as their favorite cushion,
They don’t try to adjust the temperature of blind follies and melancholic memories,
with perfect calculated mercy and normalcy.
Well, what they have is Michelangelo,
“And, Different colors made out of tears!”- said she, with perfect normalcy!

They all come and go!

But I still dream of green nights and glittering snow!
And about Distances which can be shattered into foam!
Sep 2017 · 100
Gone with the wind.
Sep 2017 · 90
Why? Why do you hate?
A boy who works in the garage,
And a drunkard who comes home late?

And but Why? why do you love?
Sharapova and the glittering taste of all beautiful stuffs?

And but why? Why do you want?
To be so great and disprove your own little self?

And thus why? Why do you need?
To understand the very necessity of greed?
And there fore, perhaps to rectify the very meaning of grief?

And then why? Why do you live?
To gather the surplus production of rotten beliefs?

Have you asked yourself? To not to walk behind the blind?
Have you seen a clown all naked and shouting at nine?
Have you got drunk and washed your eyes to see and not to blink?
You must, and you should but ask questions to think.

Take the meaning of roads not taken,
Insert the potency of life and liberty.
And how would you do all these?
Would you Listen to the beatings of your heart, please?
Sep 2017 · 80
Poetry, I give you leave tonight,
Tonight the rooms are all dark,
And the moon seems to be a ball of rice,
Poetry, I thus realize,

  That kids are born but all alone, to fight and to survive,
That brothers of mine would carry guns, and swords to imbibe the taste of hate,
My ministry of freedom, would ask me,
To celebrate the religion of chains and barriers,
And the newsroom would speak of a thousand dollars in a bank.

There's no doctor who would carry the reservoir of proper medicines,
There's not a police who would not love to beat up citizens and addicts,
There's no art in government and while doing duties,
This is evolution, evil and we write poetry at ease?

Poetry, I thus take leave from you, as sooner, as possible, my friend,
When the morning sky would turn blue, again.

There would be no one anymore,
To shout and speak naked truths,
There was no one never, to celebrate love,
There is no one to understand these galloping thoughts.
My poetry, you are and you were never mine...

Poetry, you are but an elitist propaganda,
A young blessing, but rather a burden,
Which turns out to be a curse.

Poetry, take leave thus,
And, I would burn the sentiments of such an insensitive farce.

Poetry, take leave,
Please, In brief.
Sep 2017 · 95
I Kiss my fantasy, with lips as wet,
As moss,
I kiss my fractions of sentiments, which boils and bubbles a lot.
My cauldron of hate, toils and troubles around these frames of life,
I trust the nameless destination, but not the very shadowing impermanence of signs.

I kiss the cotton, with silky care and sun burnt mirth,
I kiss and caress my huntings for a three hundred degrees thirst,
I point towards the woods, wherein the fountain may sprinkle some water over the lost balloons,
I try finding, what I found, and what I lost at certain gloomy afternoons.

I come back home without a burden, after scorching conversations, which
stitches and stuffs the telling tales,
Of and about the gaseous state of fire, which may bring some happiness under my battlements.

And, In pieces and punches and in pastures I breathe,
But, I do shiver at the very thought of attachments, in brief.
Sep 2017 · 74
The Pursuit.
People are just as wonderful as sunsets,
if you truly let them be.
When I look at a sunset, I don’t find myself saying-
“Soften the orange a bit, on the right-hand corner!
And a bit of purple with a tinge of butter silk right on the center. Bleeding bubbly blues, and a bit of shiny sapphire gray...
well no! Never! I never do that!”

I don’t try to control a sunset.
But with an almost absolutely,
resounding awe,
I watch the complete entirety,
of that enormous beauty of that starry sober dome of the sky.

And as to how it truly unfolds itself,
slowly with enough time, with enough leisure,
and with perfect normalcy.

Nothing is permanently true, and nothing is built to last forever.
Or rather does it tend to be true?

Or is it as true as both nothingness and everything?

We bleed experience, words, emotions, belief, faith,
and trust-
like rocket balloons getting saucy fried,
on a hot silver solid pan.

Or as a tornado which remained stuck-
for a long, long, long ******* time,
under those frail, and foolish fuzzy spotting of our silent throats,
just to receive,
the very patronage-
of a self-colonized theory of a both virtue and vice.

And we so very innocuously try too hard,
to protect the entire ideating process of both self-control and balance.

It is like an acceptance,
like a ninja riding a tandem bi-cycle,
like an exactness, like a round thing, like it is happening.

But just beneath the very glassy shades of streaming waves of colors, which are made out of tears,
there lies the courage to accept,
which thrives upon the vibrancy of subtlety.

And, that sunset brings a shift in your state,
from this mundane reality to the magical impressionistic beauty,
of everything and anything, which is true.
Which has always been true...

That you see every evening, with awe, and wonder,
And with an eagerness to wait,
To ask yourself-" But then where?"

And you smile and sniffle for a moment,
and a voice whispers a solid sound of music,
And you look at the solemn gloom of numberless days,
As the staccato of memories fritters like secret stars,
Wishing to hearten a timid lamp,
And you are but Tired, You are tired as ****.

And, You wake up to hear-
"You are alive and you are here!"
Sep 2017 · 57
Far away, and far from this madding crowd,
Away, and a lot too far, To a place where all memory is dead,
And, Where silence is golden, and thoughts are but seething,
Far away, far from this litters of a latent heat, weeping.

Away to the sands and blue skies and to the seas,
Away and far from all of these falsities.
To A warm place without all burdens of hope,
And, A blessing to clean my soul, with an oily soap.

Where soils are but wet and, forgotten, the weather is withering out again,
Where there is more of love and less of pain,
And, Where there's sheep, all tender and meek,
Such a place of a complete innocence, my self-needs to seek.

But all I breathe is musty air, which smells like rust, and browny leaves,
And, All I see is but yellow days and gloomy lights in cityscapes,
I don't need rockets and space tricks and fiction or science,
I do want what I need, and I do not want what I feel.

Being blind, I still work with these puzzles you know,
Someday maybe, there would be a place, where we all just can go.

There would be a garden, a pyramid, and the lotus of love,
There would be a blessing, too beautiful a burden from up above.
Sep 2017 · 95
'Caps' 'Lock', is ironically a key.
Sep 2017 · 91
Backspace knows all the untold
Sep 2017 · 108
8 to 8,
To live as said.
9 to 10,
Eat food again.

Sleep. At two,
Repeat the next morning,
With tuna stew.

Good, now you're a man,
Well, you are now you again.

Do not ask naked truths,
Do not trust your soulful thoughts,
Do not question the author and the book,

Good, you're now ready to get paid,
To eat food.

8 to 8 and at two o clock to bed,
To live a life, as said.

Said the author-to Ellis Red.
Sep 2017 · 87
"Esther, I cannot say this,
Over the telephone"
"Why not? Is there something wrong?"
"Nope Esther no, there's nothing as such..."
Thinks to himself for a moment,
"You are perhaps the most beautiful song......"

"Hello you there?"
"Yes Esther, I had been wondering,
A cup of coffee, after work? Tomorrow?"
But all Esthers belong to the reader as you know.

And then again-" a okay would have been fine"
But he was out of balance, and you are
Reading a disconnected line.

And he needs Esther, Like hot chocolate and coffee,
But, The reader wants to know the music in between,
Mystical mysterious and it was a metaphysical time,
Connection is not always, a phenomenological rhyme.

"Hello Esther? You still there?"

I gotta go, but not tomorrow,
Maybe another time?"

The cars blinked in silence, with patience as a plan,
And, The roads were wet with water and wind,
The desires remained inside the buttons of the phone,
With memories and massacres, he went back home.

The reader, and Esther was now but nothing more than a lot less than few,
Endings perhaps never end with raindrops and dew.

And as, He laughed in a cage of a wondrous retreat,
He thought to help himself-" we are all but here to celebrate defeat. "
Sep 2017 · 175
Into The Ring.
Trouble, would you come to me?
I have high hopes for you to see,
That I have failed a few times,
Which is partly true, and partly fiction.

Trouble, would you be my walking contradiction?

Trouble, would you come to me?
I have empty pockets and heartbreaks,
But I do have high hopes of defeating thee.

Trouble, as far as I can see, With my polished eyes, I'll be-
I'll be a painting in the wind,
And, A cherry monkey in a sanctuary.

Trouble, please stay there in ageless time,
with thoughts of breaking my skull, and I would be in pain!

Trouble, But I assure you,
I would fail again and fail better,
And I would rise again from the charred and burnt ashes,
Since the Fighter still remains.

Trouble, I ain't leaving, No I ain't,
But, I am ready to erase these stains.

Trouble, For you the trouble is,
The Boxer still remains.
Sep 2017 · 281
Justice, at ease.
I am born in a poor country,
in a poor society, with a poor soul,
In a poor family, with diminished hopes of seeing the world.

But I am Icarus, and by 28
I would be rich, so ******* rich,
that I would hardly be able to count all the money.

I do not know how, or why, but-
I would be rich and young and beautiful as Nixon or Reagan, or Trump,
And, I would dream on. I would be here and over there, and everywhere,
For whatever it takes, to triumph over the world!

And thus the body decides to give flashes to these fleshy thoughts,
He reads newspapers and books and propagandas, which are hot,
He believes to make a difference in this world of men,
He hopes to try beyond the screen of hopelessness again.

But, These are just rantings of a beautiful mind,
Trapped in the vestibule of wriggling nets of upbeat thoughts,
And if he succeeds, he would be Icarus, someday,
Or if he doesn't he would be a candle to be burnt and charred away.

And you read and judge all poems and points,
For, The world moves between just these two paradoxes of choice.
Of virtues and vice, and to limit oneself within the membranes of such an obsessive noise.

For, The world but moves between these two points.

But I would love to die young and rich,
Before I sleep like an use less snitch.
Sep 2017 · 97
Nature has a beautiful way of saying,
That an experience and a change can be the only constant, as such.
That life on earth moves like a timid yellow lamp,
We breathe the heat of troubles, and we adjust to the newer patterns of the flame.
We try stitching together the tattered tattoo of thoughts and memories, which are lame...

We as characters, underneath the hazy shades of appearance,
tremble at the passing of hunts and hordes,
Sleeping to sweep out the dreams of a thousand years or more.
Nature continues to elude us to the constancy of change,
We rephrase, to repeat the act of movement.

Embracing all what is new today,
Would fade away like fallen leaves,
Change is thus perhaps, the only constant,
In brief.
Sep 2017 · 113
Jokes Apart.
Dear People of the World,
I don't mean to be slutty,
But please use me when ever you want.
Sep 2017 · 103
Truth is everybody's an *******,
Poets don't qualify.
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