...

Thank you darling for bitter insight,
you broke my heart deep inside,
and through the crack you've shed the light
into the truth i've left behind.
The providence, i was blind to,
you've opened the door,
things i should have valued more,
people i should have cared more.
I praise you girl for throwing me out,
cause i've learned more, than i could have found.
Your betrayal was a revelation,
transcendence and salvation,
the call of divine,
the wisdom of creation.
Girl i am grateful for a slap in the face,
so i am awaken now,
i've found my grace.

...

Every day i witness my own demise,
to be born with hope
and die in despair.
Its a pointless struggle,
meaningless fight,
as i begin yearning for love
and end with broken heart.
I crawl to your feet,
to be dragged away,
to have a sight of you,
unable to approach
I wander why do i live this way,
with the glimpse of illusory idea of meeting your eyes
knowing change wont come to the heart of mine.
Me is a fool,
who knows that longing will destroy him,
but it is the only thing, that keeps him alive.

...

would she understand my play of words
would she care for the art i love
and listen to the sound i yearn for.
true heart is the broken heart.
sweet heart is the broken heart.

...

forgive me girl,
i've let you down,
you thought of me
as the man renowned,
but i've turned to be a real fool,
sorry girl i am no cool.

...

you've trashed my feelings badly,
and sadly or gladly,
I'm not getting madly,
you could have said it plainly
and put it out flatly,
so i would've spared my time for something else.

...

A thought, that came out of nowhere made me stuck in free-fall.
There is no way to trace it back, where it belonged.
It jolted me out of my comfort and slumber and led me down the untrodden paths.
What would i find there? Nothing, but oblivion.
I would wrap myself up in a coat of vacuum,
breaking a thin boundary between worlds.
I'd take a long walk for no reason.
And I don't need eyes to see the truth.
Neither ears, to hear the lies.
Nor tongue, to prove my worth.
I need only toes, to walk,
to feel the footprints of ages and leave my own beside.
One has to be blind to open the eyes and see through the fabric of life,
to wear the talks out and leave the silence behind,
to hush,  startle around and listen to the voice of time.
How easy could haven been for you to understand me!
How close you could have been to my soul!
But you wouldn't step near,
you would stumble around and walk away,
without knocking the door.
Do you know the feeling of coming to life and soon be tired of living,
to look at the stars and see only sparks,
to be blind to surprise and wonder,
to become surreal,
to turn into funnel of thoughts.

A man said, ten years will be spent,
whether you live or die
seasons change and waters dry,
some will arrive
and some will fly,
despite you laugh or cry.
Days will flip and flop
mindless of your presence,
time won't mind to stop
to pull you into the wagon.
There wont be time to reckon
the losses and the winnings,
to pack the broken remnants
of endings and beginnings.
The prospects will look surreal,
like shapes in summer haze
soon to catch a fire,
turning into blaze.
Memories will be weaker,
than tickling sensations
and dreams will turn brighter,
than brightest aspirations.

Its true, a poet is a spiteful man
with inessential worries,
who gambles words,
to clutter minds with fabricated stories.
His job is simple, so banal -
to cheat imagination,
to design and conjure phrases,
that are prone to alteration.
His words are quite speedy,
born at the edge of ideas,
where feelings fall onto abyss
and walk on the boundaries of what's real, chased by dimming hopes and fears.

Do you remember the fate of the fallen angel,
that had become a part of our common destiny?
His first crime and first guilt,
molded into the crust of every man.
His deep remorse will never leave
and the sense of spoiled spirit will persist.
No good deed will bring relief.
And after every failed attempt,
we turn to past and understand,
that there is no path to salvation,
no going back to initiation,
as we lost the traces of creation.
The only way is to finish the play,
to perform our part with no delay,
putting delighted faces for display,
to sin and sin again and run to pray,
thinking God will give another day,
to mend the broken pieces of yesterday.

It's intricating, to trace back the evolution of my faith.
It was a journey with undefined beginning and unknown roots.
How wonderful, to speculate over metamorphosis of your soul,
to observe paths you've taken and places you've abandoned.
First, i was quite amateur, thought faith was a sign of weakness.
Some portrayed a believer in God as fearful person, running for cover.
Next, i was indifferent, chose not to care.
Faith was a ****** territory for me, that i've never dared to explore.
Then, suddenly,  it stroke me like a lighting in a sunny day.
I've become passionate and devoted.
Subscribed ardently to every sign of divine and life became vexingly complicated.
Every event, every word was a source of confusion.
So i indulged myself in science,
became suspicious of religion and rituals.
Was confident that truth can be reached by senses.
I thought about omniscience of progress,
but lately have come to know, that however i try, logic is an infinite loop that will keep me curious but never satisfied.
I've realised, that Faith is an unconditional belief. One, that Bill Graham had when walking into the bush and contemplating about Bible.
He thought, man can't decide on authencity of scripture, he should just believe in it.
So i did.
I said, whatever comes i'll be humble, whenever uncertain i'll follow the rules.
You know what Niebuhr said about love, that if you value the result you'll never get to truth. You'll be free when you foresake desire, when disinterestedness becomes your realm. When you loose your face, forget grace, detach from everything, that you used to praise.

Ask a writer,
why does he write.
Is there not enough for a reader?
Is it a desire to share a thought,
selfish urge to plant a seed of your disease in a foreign mind?
Who wants your subjective view?
Who cares for your sweet longing?
Who pities your lonesome howl?
Its a self-deception, that you write for the subject's sake,
or for the beauty of form and figure and meaning,
to shed a light into ambiguity,
to solve a problem.
But its not!
There is no problem in your science.
There is no revelation in your books.
Just an old man,
a treacherous catcher of human souls,
an insatiable glutton for attention,
a fame lover.
So why do you write?
Is there use for this ordeal and torture of mind,
or you are too naive to think, that some curious one will spot you between the lines, and dig for the hidden pearls of your world.
You think there is an honest reader out there.
But you are awfully mistaken.
There is only a buyer or entertainer or both.
So enough of pretension!
Reveal your true face!
Cry out loud, that you do it for nothing, but a selfish mind.
No one, but for your own self.