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A poet must have a pain in the ****,
And a pen in his hand.

Of nothing else, I know not.
I have learned it in school that soldiers seldom die.
I have learned it in school to remain a bit both silent and shy.
The teachers in my school had huge degrees and dark sarcasm,
With which they often used to rule,
For they used to say-
“Don’t yell or shout or stoop or cry! For,
A “WHATEVER” might just come in the way....”

I have learned it in school that sharing is not fun,
I have learned it in school that to re-exist superficially you gotta run!

I have learned it in school that there’s a good and a bad,
I have learned it in school that “writing poetry makes you mad.”

I have learned it in school to finish papers “within” time,
I have learned it in school that if you’re a bit poor, well that’s a very sober crime!

I have learned it in school about much history and “NECKTIES.”
I have learned it in school about wearing short skirts and not eating rice!

I have learned it in school about chicken nuggets and low waist jeans!
I have learned “this” in school about fancy twilight books, ice creams, and suspicious inklings!
I have learned it in school, about a classroom- “A FISHY MARKET.”
I have learned it in school about high esteemed mediocrity and about so many things.

The fat bottomed teacher did teach us about science,
I have learned it in school that “IMAGINATION MAKES YOU BLIND!”

I have learned it in school that you need to have a shave every day!
I have learned it in school not to yell or to shout,
A “WHATEVER” might just come in the way...

I have learned it in school that the president is nice.
I have learned it in school about both virtue and vice!

I have learned it in school to keep myself calm and to proceed...............
I have learned it in school to love myself more, “MORE” than “I” should “Thi(M)nk.”

I have learned it in school about both “BOYS” and “GIRLS”,
I have learned it in school about both shame and fear!
And, I have learned it in school about both heaven and earth.
I have learned it in school that only with a good grade, comes a joyful mirth.

I have learned this in school and about so many things!
The teacher did teach, they did teach well!!!!
I have learned it in school never to shout or to yell
I have learned it in school that I have nothing else to tell!

I have learned it in school to manufacture myself as a product,
As to Something which I Can sell.

Pretty Well.

I have learned it in school about such a fairy tale,
A “WHATEVER” might just come in the way...
Why do you remember?
Something which is sad?

Why do you think about,
Your evenings with your dad?

Why should the music speak of a song?
Why does it feel so good to belong?

Why do you have faith in God and in ghosts?
Why does your government tend to be your host?

What is the reason for Love and for hate?
Why do you check the clock and it's date?

What is hunger and what is thirst?
What is the physical state of fire and lust?

When should you die and decide to begin?
Does it really matter to be always able within?

Take care and live your life,
The wind is whistling by,

The crashing waves of time and age,
Makes a memory dry.
A man must die.
Every evening at eight.
When he sips the coffee with,
Hot chocolate cake.

Whatever is begotten,
      Born and dies.

But A woman is not,
And I'll show you why.

A woman must be,
A picturesque deity,
Giving and taking all the
Evening in her.

The harmony, the health,
The warmest of thoughts.
A woman's a farmer
Every evening at eight.

Watching the steam,
And taking within,
The fetish of hate,
Every evening at eight.

Makes her a woman,
Who isn't born to be great.
But kind and mild,
And As timid as a cow.

A woman never dies,
For she is never loved.

Since she is born to witness
A death.
And, A man is a member of a community,
Of men.

Practising a composition,
To produce hatred.

   Every evening at eight,
With hot chocolate cake.
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?
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?
Backspace knows all the untold
Life is pretty short.

It is a crime to solve this amorphous riddle.

The dear, dear sun-
moves like an aged old ghost,
jovially, with histories and stories on its hunchback.

Feeble teeny lights of flying dreams,
drift over the cities of civilization of roots and roses,
like a thick sloppy smoke.

Life is pretty short,

intricately designed to wipe out-
all the songs of sparrows and nightingales,
and nothing else can be exciting after death.

Or is it the saliva of some slimy poison-
which inducts the motif of grief,
and a body without a mind,
or a hope beyond a trace?

You see,
it is just about a day or a night,
the dawn or the dusk,
a winter or a spring.

And somehow,
In this grand play of time,
Life is what ebbs away,
Only desires and a fountain of a foundation...

And I therefore, may ask-
O Me? O Life-
what Good amid these?

Since you see,
These walls were unusually dry,
They slept like milk, on Saturdays.

And, life is pretty short,
It is an industry of cowards,
manufacturing vision.
I hate the rising sun,
The gift of light.
I hate waking up and watching
The limbs.

Time moves on tired feet.

And, I have watched and I found
A picture of a thought.

Since, we are never loved.
And, Therefore we are.
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.
Amal was a friend of mine,
We were together at school-
He used to fly kites, And-
I used to stare at the sky like a fool.

Amal was a friend of mine,
We were two good friends,
He used to get the highest in Chemistry,
And teach me the relative velocity,
of trains.

I was a little slow in math,
Always had been the fool-
But Amal was a friend of mine,
And, we were together at school.

During Summer, the evenings were long-
We used to play cricket till our bodies glowed.
I was a spinner, like the soft dying cloud,
And, Amal was a friend of mine,
I used to get him out.

He first taught me that girls fall in love,
And watching **** was wrong,
As Amal was a friend of mine,
And the summer evenings were long.

We were together at school,
Amal was my friend,
Recently we are getting old,
And we don't talk about the velocity of trains.

He now keeps a goatee-
His soul demands for a job,
I start blaming the government-
While he makes me stop.

Amal was a friend of mine,
we don't meet like before,
He took a a train to go away,
And I don't understand velocity anymore.
I am close to comfort-
My lights shine.
I see the screen of words,
they seem to die, each minute.

What if the words are not sounds?
but a vision locked in my mind?
Silly questions.

I understand.
Time and more  Time
for days and works of hands.
Crescent bays, megapixels.

"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

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.
I scream to have *** with time,
A morning brings a contradiction in terms,
In between the other and all forces of allusive virtues,
The style awaits for an arrogance to bloom!
When there's a wheel,
There's a way!
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.
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.
"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!
I do not comprehend you my love
You do not comprehend me.
  Distance grows, correspondences cease.  
  As a sunflower inhales the bars behind which,  
  Her brown bud blooms in the longing for the Sun.
I do not know you my love,
You do not know me.  
And winter like a cat emerges
in the shadows of the green.  
   Her eyes glow like emeralds  
     Made from frozen teardrops,
   brought by these cold words.  

I do not call for you my love,
you do not call for me

  While the waterfall dazzles
  in its own silvery glee  
    My metaphors fail to touch you,
  though this water  
    Flowing through my fingertips,
  reminds me the touch of your hair.
A shadow is my friend.
As flowers never bend,
From the kitchen, I bring-
Lots of honey and wine.
I have been to the station,
In the park, in the mansion.
Like flowers without a fragrance,
My shadow never resembles, a layer.

See the desert, the snow, the rain.
See, go on to see some more.
Seeking to see the shelf of shells, alone.
Flowers and shadows do not have souls.

I am working, be patient with me,
Jingle the bell, words will fall.
The wires seem to call,
I eat and drink and sleep.

What leaves do they read?
What on earth does it mean?
Even now they all seem to have shadows,
Purchasing sugar.

Go on, go ahead, dance the antic hay,
A shadow is your friend,
As flowers never bend with what they say.
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.
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!
We'll begin with a box, the plural is boxes.
But the plural of ox is oxen, not oxes!
One fowl is a goose, and two are called geese,
Yet the plural of moose is never called meese.

You may find a lone mouse, or a house full of mice-
But the plural of house is houses, not hice!
The plural of man is always men,
But the plural of pan is never pen-

If I speak of a foot and you show me two feet,
And I give you a book, would a pair be a beek?
If one is a tooth and a whole set are teeth,
Why shouldn't two booths be called beeth?

If the singular's this and the plural is these-
Should the plural of kiss be ever called keese?

We speak of a brother and also of brethren-
But though we say mother, we never say methren;
Then the masculine pronouns are he, his, and him-
Now imagine the feminine- She- Shis and-Shim>

~ Anonymous.
This land is mine.
I stay here, started my career.
I have seen wanderers, on this land.
I assumed they were sugar in the milk.

But if there is a brighter tomorrow,
A colour for them and us
A line to be drawn between you and me,
I assume the land would have eyes to see.

This land is mine, you're waiting for yours,
Memories are made of a political force,
The milk should be warm, and the sugar brown,
I assume you can stay in this town.

Thinking of you, I remember things,
Such as religious beliefs and suspicious inklings,
The pattern of your beard, the bleeding men in the park.
I don't know what you think,
I assume you were not sure.

This land is between an object and
An-other tryst
You're the first to comment on its beauty and on its sleeping beast,
My land depends upon the issuance of a game,
Don't worry about the troubling nature of your shame.

This land is mine, linked to many souls,
The source of warmth and of heat,
The fire resembles the state of pride,
I assume the conflict of interests would subside.

This land is mine, welcome hither,
Posters and flyers bubbling thither.
Days go on. They never resemble time.
A spring, a summer, a shadow.
An idiom for growth and honour.
In the dusty lanes, children play.
Evenings are ******* with you.
You are old while planning your trip.
And you're older than the wind.
You blow the whistle, the hope is brighter.
You might touch your hair, and it's bald.

Do you remember what it meant to begin?
Do you remember what could've been done?
Does it bother your eyes, moist and cold?
Should you require your coat to hide your soul?

Do not hesitate and fritter like a code,
You're in warm waters, you're a frog without legs.
You're boiling, and the points reverberate.
Your mountain is melting with your thoughts.

The rooms are available for dinner.
Eat and sleep while you can.
Days go on. The Colors on the wall.
Keep asking questions about your plan.

Streets are like snakes, winding mossy ways,
You begin time, you're in the park.
Hot balloons and the voice of a lark.
To the beach for a shell,
A short crisp clear sound of a Bell.

Ringing in the ears, you end your song,
You part your hair, you pack your bags,
Days go on, they're all not sure,
Why do you think you should remember more?

Take the time, the wind, and your boats,
A journey to be taken to the other end of the coast.
The body is my slave,
My soul is my king.
My mind is my labor,
I think I am existing.

The words are my speech,
I express pleasure and pain,
I am an animal to be tamed,
At the beginning of dawn.

The whitest night glows,
The foundation mellows,
Like light.

The principles of partnership,
softens the fright, of life.

The conditions are given,
I harbor my axe,
I breathe to produce,
I exhale to relax.

The whitest night glows,
The foundation mellows,
Like light.
"I am an addict.''

"What do you take?"

"Not ****** or marijuana.
Or even alcohol or acid."

" O that's awkward..."

"No I mean, I am addicted to Reality."

"As in?..."

"I expect. I dare to communicate."
High speed. Shouts and screams.
Cool air, and the art of lost rhythms.
Make up, blush, black doozy mascara,
An overdose joint production!
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.
When you would be dead,
There would be new flowers at your door,
Time would not stop, The soul would
stop begging.

No one would speak, Pity would bathe,
like troubled twin babies.

You would be dead, the message from lights,
stills from photos, so many things.
Dying Young, wrapped and covered, boxed,
and released.

You would be dying,
Like the slow soft treble of leaves,
at a summer's night. The Forests, The clouds,
The half eyed moon, would stop begging.

You would be dying, dying like the river,
traveling again in a realm of strange colors.

Where is the music of The sunsets? The glowing flowing-
The delicacy, The purple hazed yellow sky?

Trust me, someday you would die.
Time would stop, souls would stop begging-
wrapped, boxed, released.
Demand supply,
Absent present.
To suffer is to exist.
The surprise of a surplus,
In nature.
Truth is everybody's an *******,
Poets don't qualify.
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?
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!
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?
Where is the center of the sea?
Why do waves never go there?

Is it true that sadness is thick
and melancholy thin?

Are you a bird or a fish
in those nets of moonlight?

Are you the reason?
That a man might question?

And, like a train,

-you lost the motif of time.

Why don't they train helicopters
to **** honey from sunlight?

Where did the full moon leave
its sack of flour tonight?

Tell me, is the rose naked
or is that her only dress?

Why do men conceal
the splendor of death,
in their graves?

I know not how-
the smoke of a ******,
talk with those clouds,

But Such desires-
must be watered with dew!

The windows must be open,
To watch buried time.

Isn't the smell of gravity,
made of both iron and peace?
"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"
Where all things were out of bounds,
There resided a king of clowns,
He sang and danced and leaped in mirth,
He moved along the lines of hate.

Where all things were out of bounds,
There resided a king of clowns.

The pranks of hate and love resolved,
The pawns and workers were there to ride,
The canvas of winged and fried consciousness,
A deference to capabilities, to ignore.

But there's a little place,
where Beulah sleeps,
Dances and leaps in Sunshine and rain,
Pure as a concept and whole as a grain,
There are such things but without a strain.

Where all things were out of sight,
There resided a mode of fright.
They sang and danced and gorged with pride,
There resided a frame-less light.

But there's a little place,
where desires are kept,
Prances and plunges in a Pinkish Paradise,
Pure as a conceit and whole as a root,
These are all things that the king had to loot.

But The pawns and workers were there to ride,
The canvas of winged and fried delight,
A deference to a foundation, to demystify,
Where all things were alibis?

Of Mice and Men and an out of bounds,
There resided a king of clowns,
The pawns and workers were there to ride,
The mode of fright from out of sight!
First as love, then as hate.
Burning coal in my hands, I understand.
First as a river flowing,
then as a dawn mist glowing.
I Cannot but think of you, our souls,
like lost little clones, swimming in a pond,
With dreams to fly, I am learning that I've pride.

First as a cold winter day, I love the
gift of light.
I understand that you hate the mode,
of fright. It is easy to float, like bubbles
of wine in my throat.
I am not trending as a goat, And you are loved,
Therefore we are dreaming to fly,
I am learning that I've gorged with delight.

O! Happy days, Happy Happy days.
There was an age of suns and glory,
And heroic similes.
Fortunes favor the brave, I have been dancing,
over the grave, the gravest of thoughts,  
As an ashcan, Like a patient on a table, etherized.

First as love, then as hate.
Burning coal in my hands, I understand.
I have eyes. Two eyes.
I have thoughts.
Thoughts, many thoughts.

I sleep, I repeat.
I begin to shine.

I add sweetness in my days.
A body needs a soul.
The flower blooms at dawn.
The motion hides a force,
A jumbled overdose.
Cameras were invented to capture memories,
And to not burn memory space.

An essence, and its immediate objective essentiality.
Hope is deaf.
Thought is blind.
Afternoons pass away,
Watching clouds.

A feeling is cold,
A maddening delight-
Syrupy evenings,
Watching eyes.

Two eyes, Two,
To the days before,
The Sun is old, kind,
But fraught with noise.

Cheer up, go along,
I don't care,
I never did wrong,
Silver nights.
In brief description is an illusion,
Everything floats.
Mangoes are sweet, a fire is too hot,
Flowers are nice, a raining device.

Two eyes are as cold, as tales too thick,
To be told.

And shotguns are quick, like an aged old memory of rings.

A sickening joy, and all colors of a toy,
She's Counting the breeze, as my curtains release,
the breath.

And a history, who hosted, the castle of prunes,
Sang to the tune, of all spirited debates,
Now, Fritters like a meek and mildly innate,

But, Partly, in parts, of all particles, in flux, starts along with statute of laws,
Of loss, and all locks-
As, Innate.
And then we are free,
When fear is no more a mystery.
But a concept is fluid like a juice,
We do consume, but we can never choose.
The sea had been mine,
The Sun was all yours.
The land had been lost,
Since all Time will fly.

How would you still then deny?

The growth is a law.
The choice was my slave,
The Time will all fly,
Since they try to be loved.

How do you manage to listen about...?

The courage was all yours,
The seas had been old,
Moved like a ghost,
With a powerful voice.

How do you still manage to rejoice without food?
How do you even think when the times are not good?

And all days are but told,
The numbers are alone-
The body was my slave,
My soul is my king.

How would you manage to ever possibly begin?

Since there would be leaves,
A released reverie,
We would be there-
Perhaps a witness to this game?

How would you then manage to whisper your claims?

And all Time will all fly,
Like I said they would do-
There would be Time yet for more...
And you would look at the gates.

Would you still play this game of a battle between states?

Too Dearly, it'll be gone.
Casually alone.
"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.
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