"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?"

"Nay,....,
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. "

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.

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.

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.

Dear People of the World,
I don't mean to be slutty,
But please use me when ever you want.
Sincerely,
Grammarly.

Truth is everybody's an *******,
Poets don't qualify.

"Once upon a time, there was a queen,
Beauty admired her all existing being,
Generous and lovable and caring she was,
Once upon a time, there was someone as her" said Mrs Brown,
and stopped for a brief,
The kids were all gazing with a wondrous relief,
"Once upon a time.." She went off to say,
A story of beauty, and fairies and elfs,
Who can love you all day.
Who can love you all day.

And then when she said of wolves and dark doubts,
The children were listening but making face pouts,
But then when she said-"that there was Prince Red, who was but brave and saved all of that town...."
The children were going all like-"and then what Mrs Brown?
And then what Mrs Brown?"

And like all other stories she then well said-
"Happily ever after, with our queen and prince red.
The town was now green with hopes and new dreams,
Wolves were all gone,
And love was in air,
Everyone lived so happily over there.."

The children were smiling and laughing like skies,
The children went home with hope in their eyes,
But Mrs Brown knew, that the story was false,
Since when they would grow, there would be only wolves and dark doubts.

She was but hiding the mask of all truth,
She knew it well, that reality "ain't good."
But all that she knew,
And all what she did,
Was To instill a moment of hope in a brief.

The children would grow,
One would be queen, and one would be Red,
Some would be wolves and some would be afraid of fear and all dread,
Some would be good, and some would be bad,
The truth in all ways, would be no ones are glad.

They would be just there, between this and all that.

They would be grown ups, who would be standing between,
The conception of bad and the conception of good,
They would be grown ups to think-
"I but just could...
And I but just should..?"

And it will rhyme,
Like lemon and lime,
Like a walking contradiction,
At any given time.

And It will pass and play genteel notes,
Like counting colors in dreamy courts,
Like mellowing butter,
It will rhyme,
Like a lot too less,
But Too much a crime.

And it will rhyme,
Like munchy days,
Like grief and thought,
Of mundane ways,
Like liquor at nine,
To say that I am fine,

It will rhyme,
Like lemon and lime.

And, it will rhyme.

"Please stop, please, would you?
Can't you see that my son is in pain?"
Cried the mother aloud, with resounding hopes of seeing the doctor
Again.

The doctor a year older than thirty two, says-
"He Is a patient without any patience, its true,
Your son is baffled and a catatonic mass..."
The mother cried aloud-" please doctor, o doctor help us....!"

He sits down at the desk, checks his pulse,
His cheek, his bones, his eyes at last,
"Catatonic, catatonic" he murmurs twice,
Says to the mother about "being encephalitic, which is as cold as ice..."

The mother nods to almost everything he says,
Takes the prescription, gives his pay,
Goes out to the booth, to fill up the form,
Thinks to herself, "my son would be really well someday."

"With newer meds, He would talk like how grown ups do,
He would write stories about his aunt Mary too,
She is still alive, loves him very much,
Perhaps he would be just fine, by the next lunch at home?
Perhaps no one would be no longer be alone anymore?
Perhaps at home? With everyone together?
Perhaps with everyone back at home, helter skelter?"

Months go by, the doctor, Mr Sacks,
Discovered a new medic, which carried the potency to release the germ,
He treated it on his patient Leonard Lowe,
Within an hour, he became a man, as creative as god can be.

Months and months added up to a year,
Leonard has now somehow, recovered himself into a well bred man,
But, as awakenings come, god keeps all other plans, at bay..

God is not chemistry, that can be studied at hand.

With Side effects, and more, he now became paranoid,
His head moved and shivered, his eyes now continued to toy,
He received a awakening from an awful dream,
He now received paranoia from his newer medicines.

Lowe was really well for a summer, he tasted ice creams,
Lowe was really well for a summer, he drew a painting,
A painting of what simple chemistry can do,
A painting that all doctors can never be true.

His mother was still crying aloud with resounding hopes to see the doctor again,
She was screaming, helplessly " please stop, would you?
Don't you see that my son is in pain?"

Since the doctor said-" that awakenings are once and can never be said"
The doctor went to the other chamber,
That evening, "to read a story again,
Which he perhaps, never read."

Chemistry, it can never be said.
Chemistry, is but an awful arrangement of certain probabilities in sets.

The mother was still screaming-"don't you see that my son is in pain?"
For, Leonard Lowe has now become catatonic again.

Dear math,
If your x is gone,
Do not you wonder y.
Say goodbye,
Move on.

Dear math,
If Ya' feeling you need one,
Do think twice, since-
Twos are great,
But the truth is but a functional device.

Dear math,
Move on, would ya?
With errors and more.
You do have a gluttony,
To statistically ignore.

Signs, symbols, and tales.

Dear math,
Theoretically, with you,
At nevermore with variables.

Math,
Say goodbye,
To all those laws of squares,

Stop mathematically,
To count the viability of all empty stares.

You are but here,
Do not you wonder y.
Stop whispering to the ordinates,
of a blurry black sigh.

Dear Math,
Say goodbye,
And cheer up to face an empty sky.

Math,
With you, I am ready to try.

"Existence is but a deception," thinks Mister Sen,
"a ***** little lie, a junkyard of loss created by all men."
With cellophane dreams in restless hearts,
Mister Sen contemplates "to- comprehend, this or that."
"But everything is as zero as good,
and all are as one as bad."
Mister Sen thinks to himself, "I ain't no ***** little rat..."

Thus he walked out, and right on to the door, and,
With fancy biggy dreams,
stopped once or maybe twice to check out the store,
A store of books which sold fiction and all those upon a time, just at once,
Mister Sen, therein and herein, thought of having a slightly furtive glance.

He has read a lot of Sartre, Beauvoir, and Gilles,
He has read of Toni Morrison, The bluest eye,
But he has never read of himself on any given day,
He has never read of himself within any story to say.

Thus Mister Sen thought to himself-
"I am all old and a bit too shy to be told, maybe...
In any drama or an in any such way, to be too fictitiously wavy,
Existence is but a deception, and a ***** little lie,
Even in fiction and philosophy, I Don't have any right to look
around with my eye,
Why won't I have a chance to say any goodbye?"

He walked home, all cold and tired, and all,
With nothing in the world which seemed to be so good as true,
Mister Sen but never thought of himself,
That he was a story, combined to form a million things, untrue.

Mister Sen, Well this one's for you!
"It was all in the cold winter air,
Where all the answers blew, They were all really blue,
Dreamy And wavy like scented flowers at night and bright,
Bright as white and pearly glow,
Mister Sen They were all really blue,
To be honest at heart, they were, Meant to be only for you."

Mister Sen,  this one is for you!

It was all in the cold winter air,
Where all the answers blew

In brief description is an illusion,
Everything floats.

In a classroom of twenty or more,
The teacher walks in with a thought of pride,
"I am here," She thinks to herself,
And we all stand to wish, "Good Morning".

The Teacher teaches Literature,
The Teacher is a lady of fifty-five,
The teacher walks in every day,
With a lot of pride, especially on Saturdays.

She prepares the lesson plans,
Fused with the state as to what is to be taught,
As to what is to be reasoned, and what is to be asked,
She teaches all students who belong to a class.

She addresses the students, calling names and more,
Talks in all platitudes, and looks down upon the floor,
She teaches all students, about romantic outbursts,
She praises Keats and Tagore, but not Beckett or Hurst.

But one fine Monday, there was he,
A Cherry Little boy, Big eyed, Twenty three,
Asked a question about false nationhood or so,
She was a teacher with a lot of pride, as you know...

With a thought of tasty theories, and elitism in mind,
She bashed and washed him down into the drain,
As to not him, but his hopes were drowned,
And this is how the teacher throttled "The Questions,
Which were all around...."

But In a classroom of twenty or more,
'These' students never fail to follow,
'The' teacher walks in every day,
And usually, teaches Literature, on endless Saturdays!
She teaches approaches and Literature, on Saturdays.

Growing up includes a lot of sacrifices,
and swallowing salty tears,
and going out to the sea for an ever-more.

Growing up includes the option to edit,
as all machines are prone to make mistakes,
They all rephrase.

Growing up is but a short story,
of not being totally complete.

We Grow. We Rephrase. We Live up to it.

We Repeat.

Growing up includes the art of painting,
A successive series of accidents.

Growing up, in general,
is all about playing broken violins.

তখন মিমি যাদবপুরে,
মুষলধারায় বৃষ্টি,
তখন মিমি যাদবপুরে,
বি এ অনার্স হিস্ট্রি.

মিমি তখন যাদবপুরে,
উনিশ কুড়ির রক্ত,
তখন মিমি যাদবপুরে,
হিস্ট্রি নিয়ে পড়তো.

তখন মিমি যাদবপুরে,
যতীন্দ্রনাথ বাগচী,
আন্দোলন এর মন্বন্তরে,
সম্মানিত প্রার্থী.

তখন মিমি যাদবপুরে,
মুষলধারায় বৃষ্টি,
মিমি তখন যাদবপুরে,
বি এ অনার্স হিস্ট্রি.

এখন সময় বদলে গেছে,
এখন মিমি পঞ্চাশ,
কলেজ ফেরত বটতলা তে,
কল্লোলিত নিঃশাস.

এখন মিমি'র স্বরধ্বনি,
বার্নার্ড শ, ওয়ার্ডসওয়ার্থ,
মিমি এখন বদলে গেছে,
সময় এর সাথে সংঘাত.

এখন মিমি প্রস্তুতি নেয়,
সময় মানে হিস্ট্রি,
তখন মিমি যাদবপুরে,
মুষলধারায় বৃষ্টি!

When there's no light,
Twinkling in the sky,
And No nothing attached to sounds, or to words,
A complete darkling then encircles my soul,
I am all within, and I am all without.

The evening recedes, slowly,
Into the huge enormity of the roads,
The budding fingers of a reflective drama, smoke a cigarette or two,
Trying to inhale the tiresome day,
All within, and all without.

And the stream of steam, and saucy lights,
Vibrate like a lamp,
Timid and tired, as the night turns grey.
The bottle of hopes and wishes fritters like encrypted codes,
In a mode of transportation, to the colorless doom.

The scheming clouds now wash out,
The streets,
With the ferocity of an obtuse flash,
All within the membranes of frailty,
The maze of entangled wires,
Embraces the dark, like a drift of velocity.

The people with no such reason or rhyme,
Return home from the receding days,
A song within,
And a thought without, half extinguished flames.
Such starry, telling tales, moves through the mirrors, of history and facts,
And ages and ages on a dead planet.

But all,
Within and all without, like a fake plastic evolution,
Trying to strip the string of lights,
Like an aged old ghost.

For, The night is in bloom,
And they would now sleep,
In the seven sleeper's den.
All without, and all within.

Donkey loves to eat all grass,
Donkey loves to chalk out plans.
Doggy wants to beat em up,
Colonia'h eyes wide shut!

Ratty steals and shines like gold,
Donkey loves to work for free,
Doggy wants to beat em up,
'Contradictions' come n see.

Lambie takes all sinners good,
Lambie tastes like good ole food,
Doggy eats them with all pride,
'Mythology, you may write.

Birdie drinkin' seedy tales,
Birdie talkin' insurance,
Lizzy breaks all vertebrates,
Doggy has got hate in tails.

Sweaty donkey works all day,
Ratty gives him no such pay,
Doggy loves to beat em up,
'*******' shout and say.

Donkey needs no birdie tales,
Shout n say. Shout n say!

My fancies are bitter flies,
Sparks of looming light,
Twinkling in the dark.

My fancies are Drowsy evenings,
Which echoes the silence of a careless glance,
To soak up the pleasures,
Of disobedient thoughts.

The bindings of love has grown such filmy wings,
And took a farewell flight,
Into the sunset sky.

Now I thus leap,
into the darker caves of the mind.

These scatterings of memories, Flower,
But, for the moment's whim.

And the fallen leaves of confusion,
swollen with hope, rides on the canvas of winged surprises!

To dance alone, all but alone,
With the illuminations of catatonic bubbles,
and with illusions,
Of Beautiful Shadows.

And, I float on the surface of colorless nights,
With all allusions to the shrine of the dead past.

From the solemn gloom of numberless days,
The staccato of memories fritters like secret stars,
Wishing to hearten a timid lamp.

But the sky seeks slaves and claims obedience,
From the mysteries of ageless time.

But, as you see,
My fancies have always been Fireflies,
And, Scripts of screaming tales,
Which would be Written on dust with flowers and scars.

My fancies 'are' fire flies,
Specks of Troubled light,
Twinkling in the dark.

Butterflies flutter in through your window,
Red, yellow and blue.
In, like a shower of rainbows,
in all merry colors and hue.

A complete transaction of hope,
you taste a purple haze of ghosts,
And into the wilderness of dark alleys and self-doubts;
Of faces, and marshmallow clouds,
You're but mincing a mundane nifty motion.

There’s a bright cold clamor of colors!

Deceptively small and intolerably thin.
You are now a feeble paper on the outside,
But Shrieking hot lava within-
And, you are now shrinking down to consume the-
chilled cracked kettle of desires,
that staggers to breathe in-
Silence...

Blood, sand, and mud,
Scarred and scared!
Bright, white, and a pearly glow;
With Skies, and for open skies,
A miserable melody overflows!
And, you would wait,
Wait again.

Sitting alone on the forest floor,
Bygone breezes tousle your hair-
A few Kids-
were playing on the streets,
those shadows fleeting past your face,
You are now Looking out into the dim yellow beats,
Of movement,
And you are trying to breathe again.

You're but melting away your fears, slowly,
With the fearful symmetrical orders of fury,
Within a perfect infertile maze of an insured immobility.
You're Free,
as free as a passionately detached, platonic paradox.

A temple…manufacturing allegiance-
A grammar of edible dreams for permeating membranes,
A drum beat for an inkling, and-
A train, speeds by overhead-

It illuminates your face,
You melt in this information of embrace.
You are in- formation.

You stand alone now,
gazing all alone into the storm,
Wishing to fly away with your by gone dreams,
Just like Snakes and Ladders, and chimneys on the shores,
Just like a Shining silver plate full of diamonds.

Gone are the days,
Of disobedience and innocence.
Gone are the days of, an-
Instrumental violence.

  Morning to the silky soul,
And to the shadowing shades of impermanence.
Morning to the dewy doses,
Of painting all accidents.

Long out to the zenith,
Of red bridges, and bluish seas,
Like a rolling stone troubled all alone,
To Bleed a maze of moss and broken violins.

But a mundane mourning for the silky soul,
And there are,
Some adjectives to condole.

These parts of an analogous appearance,
And moving along with,
some blessed rings of smoke,
A glassy, grassy stairway to the Vincent skies,
To the blinky stars, and stormy tales,
Moving alone,
But All alone, with fairy grooves and blooming dales!

O Sopranist! How could you sing like this?
I offer th'aural sense to thee in peace.

Of music of thine does scatter aura bright,
And scuds the wave of cadence to a height.

As tho' piercing boulders, sweet melodies float-
Like a winding stream of nectar-note.

O Sopranist! How could you even sing like this?
I offer th'slurry flames of drunken whispers, to thee,
in peace.

Of endless happenings which may question th'soul,
O Sopranist ! would you be always there to condole?

O Sopranist! How could you sing like this?
I offer th'aural sense to thee in peace.

O Sopranist! How could you sing like this?
....
.......
.........

To-gather,
Together.

There was a young man named Bright
Who- traversed faster, with colors-
Heat, cold and light.
He set out one day,
in a relative way...
And returned on the previous night.

An airless wind- he turned it super cool-
He stretched out to measure,
the chalky fingerprints of Death,
He took a chain, however long,
He made it straight, however tight,
Against the teeth of gravity and weight.

Vibrating Anger danced within the wisdom of Dark-
Over bellowing waves and ineffable foam,
to create tiny curled membranes of orbits.
How flimsy, feeble and fragile it seemed-
His yolk of thoughts screamed like a shower of shooting stars.

The geometry of winter sailed through-
the ponderingly wondrous locus of infinity.
There were those rushing waves-
mountains which roared of thunderous shrieks,
And, Ages on ages on a dead planet.

Then Came one Summer,
swelling with the pleasures of a velocity.
Which outshone the loss of fallen leaves,
And he-
sprayed iron and salt onto the light.

He became a young man named Bright-
who whistled in wonder to swallow the lake of dreams,
and overturning all its jars,
like a feeble fevered coiled ghost,
he vanished!