Sun rises, sending its light across the universe.
What have you prepared for me, the incessant fate?
A day of joy or day of sorrow,
How long will l be fooled by this trickery?
Will l ever learn the rules of game?

Whether I count places I've never been,
and friends I hadn't
Perhaps,
it doesn't matter,
for as long as I live, I keep them forgetting.
Encounters I could have had,
romances I might have enjoyed,
- it's all a figment in the end,
wishful dream,
after all.
My heart is cold,
though sun is shining,
and I remember what you've told on the day of departing,
that I am ridiculously old,
and my jokes are disgusting,
then you left and said nothing,
but since I hadn't changed a bit,
and I am still discussing,
the subtleties of good and bad,
in my head,
the peculiarities I've never had,
and how you loved me undiscovered.
I wish I dreamt of you coming back
but the moment is never endless,
and no greater joy will heal me out,
cause my sickness
   - is my sadness.

Farook M.S.

Find the one with compassion and not contempt, for a fellow man.
Who doesn't stand out or gives impression, just a simple man.
Whose talk is short and neat, but expressions tell you much.
Find someone, who will give in need, when others leave you behind.
Who doesn't ask pay for a good and love you for other things.
Find the one, who shares food and drink, as well as your weighty burden, despite the hardships and ease.
Seek the honest, though naïve, who doesn't cheat and steal.
And not the one, of high status, who will mock you in your grief.
He, who quite, doesn't brag and raise his self-esteem,
Find the humble, though courageous, who believe in the wildest dreams.

The day was nice.
The sky was clear,
and the sun was rising above,
but I had a fear
of dark clouds approaching from a far distance,
as far as I can see them.
I thought,
I might loose this beautiful day from the doubt that shrouded my cheer,
that the hope isn't real,
and its fooling me into believing in the seeming future
of the day I am dreaming.
Then I thought again and had a peace,
for at least
I've seen the dawn and the glimpse of sunrise,
that will keep me going on,
despite the looming sadness of would be loss.
I am content with this moment,
and have no aspiration for things to come,
for I've lost the fear to hope,
and killed them both,
under the rising sun.

This world is made for the heartless and insane,
who doesn't have compassion and feel no pain,
but for the thoughtful and wise,
who are conscious of divine,
its just a passing of time.

Solemn abode of history unknown,
an abandoned house stands on its own,
with wearied walls and swinging shutters,
with dusty window panes and bended gutters.
It was a place of joy and now its in disaster,
with time hammering harder and faster.
No hope resides there,
only despair everlasting.
The spirit left it long ago,
leaving void and the shadows of its masters,
with old laughters still echoing the rooms,
celebrating hollowness they cant voice,
though their stories are vibrant as the colors of past days.
A sudden look will immerse its caster, in mysterious strands of memories,
pleading and asking.
Were the bygone days an illusion or reality?

Let me love You like I do
with fragile heart and mind in blue,
with dewy dreams of me and You,
with my shortsighted view.
With awkward shyness,
that I woo
and all mistakes, that I do,
let me simply be true to You,
let me love You like I do.

If i shall die,
I'll be alive, as never before.
The body,
this world, that i loved
wouldn't mean a thing,
no more.
Embodied in flesh, was i humble slave,
but set free,
I'll be a king,
‎once more.
‎
Words won't upset me
‎as touches cannot reach.
There won't be a need to define ‎the feelings
‎in awkward shapes of speech,
for a time to ‎cater to someone,
‎keeping the promise,
‎trying to please.
‎
Your lovely face will turn into shadow,
‎devoid of features
‎and traces blurred.
I'll soon forget its lines and furrows,
‎that once set me wild,
‎pressed to my lips.
I will miss them soon,
‎but I'll forget.

Scattered to pieces,
I'll invade the existence,
like shards of glass stuck in the teared eyes.
I'll become nothing and everything
that listens
to permeating sound of helpless cries.

Call for me at nights with that silent howl.
Put me in the dreams,
that may come true.
Look through the clouds and rain,
that may follow
for a glimpse of hope,
that I am somehow with you.

I believe a place has a soul
where memories and
feelings are stored.
Either joy of meetings or
breakups' remorse
still resides there
waiting for rebirth.

I am not a poet anymore.
Or have i ever been?
The overflowing shiver,
that ran through my skin
on every flush of whims
seems to really gone till the last bit.
Scenes and sights that stirred me
from deep within
are powerless now,
as if they lost the reason to exist.
Your captivating glance,
the touch of your hands,
even the breath of love from your lips
can't turn the tides
and bring back the dreams.
Form day to day this fever feels foreign to me.
It may be right or wrong,
but seems, that I am not a poet anymore...

Hope is dead,
and it's been for a while.
Only illusion of happiness lurks in the sky.
I dreamt of future, full of joy,
but have to live with what i've got.
Lately, was i hungry for a wise men talk,
collected jewels of human thought,
but now, the years have drained it all
and the gossip of fools is all i want.

A month or two, till now, i hated gnawing sunrays,
rushed to a spot of shade,
waited impatiently for the time to come,
when the cool air would tame the raging sun.
As the summer aproached its end,
i ******* find the fever to hate.
I loathed 'him' much,
but it gives me pain
to see 'his' vigour fade away.
And i can't stand the sight of 'his' draining eyes,
pathetic choking of failing life.

I searched for meaning in worldly pleasures,
in fleeting amusements,
in beauty's eyes,
but every vain attempt left me bewildered and broken,
for the key laid hidden in my mind.

i engaged in love ordeals then wrestled with the sense of loss.
as the earth got burnt by the sun and washed with rains,
so my weary soul faced the trials of light and darkness....

I feel soft wind, tickling my face,
as if your finger's tender touch runs through my skin,
relieving fears and worries
and thoughts, troubled much.
I leave them all there,
where i fell,
in the dungeons of despair.
Tell me not of tomorrow,
not of labour.
Better talk over yeaterday's trifle,
even there is no time to spare.
Can we not live for the others,
not follow dead men's trail?
Live and die for simple things,
for the dawn, and night
and trivial dreams?

I've trashed the years
and never blinked,
nor cried a tear
for a lost chance.
It flowed,
the swelling rivers of honey and milk,
‎at my feet,
which i never counted or held dear.
So what,
‎for my shabby soul,
‎i lived and died here.

You say, i could ask for a little help,
at least kneel down in a silence, for prayer
or implore to wisdom of common sense,
embracing defeat,
succumb and concede.
So what,
i dont feel sorry for what i did.

I am trying to be humble,
though unconcscious of what that means,
palping the boundaries of dreams,
scratching old wounds,
that heal and redeem
with every probable sin.

Don't expect me with dazzling
success,
throwing treasures at your feet.
No words of comfort i can offer
under the glimmering stars,
brightly lit.
A mere sorrow.
Only defeat.

You can throw a few lies to trick my mind,
pretending to value its eccentricity,
while you don't give a ****.
So what,
i am a regular guy.
You might still pity me,
but never love.

My view is constricted by experience,
of which, i supposedly have none.
I am challenged by every senior of every rank
for words i've said and things i've done.
But lo and behold,
this very world,
there is something to be told.
I've never touched the cupola of heaven,
but i've seen the face of God
in every tree and every flesh,
across the seas and hot dry lands
i've found the reason and the source of change,
that breaks the shells and sifts through air
with pure wisdom and gentle care,  
spreading traits of life,
that got us here.

day holds me in cage,
night sets me free
from the burden of identity,
the necessity to be me.

I burnt in the flames of passion,
then languished at the bottom of despair,
to loose the grip of reason
and lay my soul to bare.

His love for her was most pristine,
so he could never think of anything bad.
She was the most high moon for him.
Though distant,
he yearned for a little shine,
every lonely night.
But he knew deep inside,
that its only a wish.
She was quite a cruel
and rather selfish.
How could the moon, so sublime in nature,
care for a man, treading the earth.
Instead, she looked up to the sun,
glittering in gold.
Stared in awe,
intoxicated by its radiant light.
It was her dream,
one day,
one night,
for the sun, to be the lovely bride.
But the man kept faith
and the man endured,
to receive from the moon a kind
salute.
He wanted nothing in return,
only gentle smile,
be it truth or the lie,
could give everything,
even heart or the soul,
but the cold face of the moon
would never turn below.

let me find respite under your stealthy coat,
running from the dreariness of noon
and the troubles of the day,
to the mystery of stygian darkness,
the visit, i come to pay.

A poem is only a poem,
words threaded into strings.
It has no purpose,
no cajoling,
no hidden desire to win.
They are mere lines of faulty judgement,
unripe thoughts,
born out of chaotic dreams,
spontaneous dreams.
Whimsical whims.
Whimsical whims.

Don't try to find a pretext in a poem,
you'll be awfully dissapointed.
There is no need to decypher the wording,
unriddle background conformity.

One doesn't intend by writing a poem,
to conqure hearts,
or accomplish a remarkable feat.
Poem doesn't need to be acknowledged,
it has own life to live.

A poem is the most pure gesture,
done with no implicit thought or vile intention.
It is a token of soul,
candid simplicity,
the most heartfelt conjecture.

only the sense of fleeting time
and the fact that i am almost twenty nine,
years spent,
wandering half a life,
makes me pretend to be wise,
though i am still a careless child,
fond of tales and flirty rhymes,
heedless to the warning chimes,
i can't be different,
nor i can be nice.
No i dont expect you search for me, girl.
for i am not a treasure or a pearl.
read my writings if you want poison for the soul.

this shifty wind on a sunny day reminds me of lonely future,
about time when i am singled out,
left by friends,
abandoned by parents,
deprived of expectations and certainty,
once abound.
its soft, mild, tender,
but killing
what i am willing today,
for tomorrow i am wary.
though content with now seclusion,
i dread it in a minute.
society scares me,
so i detach myself to a place and moment where am free of doubt
and commitments,
but sooner or later i'll need the believer,
one happy to bear the weight of my feelings,
who's no more than a dreamer, awaiting to surrender his soul to a preacher,
ready to turn into disciple of my ****** ideas.
it is so clear to see through the broken veneer,
how twisted my mind,
how strong is the fear.
‎come closer if you wanna see it. things what i am proud of,
‎stuff, that ive built
is the mash of sorrow and guilt.

This life hardened me well,
deep to the core.
It killed my senses,
compassion,
empathy,
but the passing of mother knocked me bad,
took away my vices,
and left me defenseless.
As if brought to infancy again,
i began longing for that warmth
and care,
so familiar and dear.
I searched to hear the voice,
that blessed me every day,
for what i was and wasn't,
for the trembling glance,
that loved me without doubt,
with no bias and no tout.
I felt, i was unyielding.
I thought, i was strong,
but the passing of mother left me stricken,
    alone,
in the wilderness of this world,
among the cold faces of gloomy neighborhoods,
where no light of her kindness can find me.
Will i learn a lesson.
Will i find the truth,
though no flush of joy can heal these wounds.

You came to me around a time
when i was extremely vulnerable,
stripped to the feet of my soul,
you struck me to sunder.
I was captivated by the radiance of your spirit,
for i was blind.
My thirsty and depleted mind fell prey to your magic,
your play of words,
your dance of thoughts.
I had no means to defend.
I was hopeless before your charms.
This came,
for i was always drawn to mysterious spirits,
ones originating contagious wisdom,
who talk through glances,
who laugh with eyes.
what is more pleasant than a discourse of mates,
fallen in love with each others mind.
I feel,
I could lay down my life for the unlocker of my soul,
who splashes back my reflection.
Why is so hard to find the sighted.
All around me are men
in darkness
with eyes wide open,
foreheads perennially knocking the wall.
I'll keep wandering,
for it is the best i can.

can you love me for what i am,
with all my complexity and indecision
with all my faults and speckles,
my near-sighted imprecision

could you not put me on the social stratum,
looking through the lens of meritocricy
not to count my posessions and achievements,
level me with bittersweet verbosity

can you spare me of doubt, that clouds your relative judgement
see with all my ugliness and ridicule
love as days go by
as joy subside
as colors turn bleak
and darkness arise.

can you accept my immature writing,
filled with ill-arranged words
or the way i talk through stutter and occasional sighs.
forgive my incapacity for kindness,
awkward attempts to win your heart.

My mind is a battlefield where struggle takes place,
forces of good and evil clash.
For their cause may be justified,
but me is the victim,
who is trashed from side to side

I am tried and tortured for the sake of truth,
dragged down unknown paths,
drowned to hostile seabed.
I am a useless puppet, an amusing pet.

For the escape is unthinkable,
no way to unshackle sagging chains.
The earth is the limit,
where i wither till the end of days.
And the greedy clouds wont let the light out, looming over queer scene.
I try to read the faces, but the shadows take them away to decease.
The battle goes on.
The fight picks up steam.

I plea the master who set up this play.
I need a break.
I need delay.
The world is no longer my dwelling.
This life is no longer my claim.
I only want a little silence,
a time to think it away,
the freedom to shake my visions,
now no more than hazy shapes,
to fall asleep in wilderness,
where ground will soak me in green embrace.

Oh, i hate so much the noise,
the slamming of doors and
the cracking of bones.
The disturbance of air
caused by inessential cries,
disdainful sighs,
treachereous lies.
The purpose of many
are useless talks,
which poison thoughtful minds.
Only scratches of scribbles,
forging silence of words,
which sound so much tenderly clear,
than insipid shouts
are dear to my ears
    and eyes.
Couplets and couplets -
    my lifesaving droplets,
      that heal me of noisy venom.

Its sad, that death is the only tangible truth.
I'd like to wish for something else, but everything is a hoax.
Our love is a figment, that reason will dissolve,
a queer thought, passing through my mind to a place of no return.

Am i old?
No, i am ancient,
like granite rubbles of abandoned city,
where silence is profound,
where spirit of bygone days
floats around,
between the time-worn pillars, embraced in moss,
you can feel the touches,
can sense the warmth,
that still so cozy and real,
where life was abundant,
filled with memories to the brim,
but now so still.
It has lost the vibrancy and allure,
the jubilance of spontaneous thoughts.
but found the wisdom of sadness,
the peculiar meaning of God.

for a dawn is an instance of creation,  
man awakened to world in awe and fear, with a glimpse of hope
on his obscure journey ahead,
overflowed with aspirations and uncertainties, the vigour and despair.
Its a message of change, reminiscence of promise,
a lonely moment of being confronted with dread and craving for life.

as we trod along the path to salvation,
faking compassion
and synthesizing joy,
masking foul meaning with perfection,
sipping tasteless wine for mere ploy.
we've to come to a place and not the promised land
but desolation with no seeming end ...

Is it possible to have a real empathy,
so deep and intimate, that you may talk
without uttering a word?
Is there a way to emulate mindset,
to accommodate a foreign feeling,
to live through strange emotions?
Is one right to write about stranger's experiences
or one has to undergo the same spectrum of joy and sorrow
to compose their true and vivid story?
Is a writer eligible to speak for others?
Who endowed him with urgency to draw conclusions
on life and death?
Why does he reside in his own world, enclosed in mystery,
oblivious of daily struggle
and decides on matters unknown to him?
Can such a complexity of life be inferred
by his mercurial mind?

I hate the blues tonight,
coz its no use to grieve the broken heart.
There is no point in being right
in this meaningless fight,
when all are happy to be wrong.
I don't want to make a wish
nor i want to dream of you.
Tonight i yearn for simple thing,
to keep silence without the blues.
i am done thinking of fellow men,
their holy grace or miserable lot,
counting blessings,
dreading faults,
bashing head against shut doors,
rushing to open slots.
now i am eager to be real,
i want to feel the ground
to burn the traces of figments,
shout the truth out loud
I dont care if one cares,
how spooky looks,
how right the words.
Crowds will stir and stare,
but won't dare
to come near of my sword.
I've lost the steam but I've got the  fire
to crush the pillars of this world.
No matter how my fate is dire
I'll tread against the will of fools.

Man is so bogged down in confusion,
he is subject to circumstances,
his life is highly preconditioned,
his choices are predetermined,
thoughts are arranged for him,
I wonder, what does he has at the end?
What is mine, for God's sake?!

I indulge myself in poetry, when i am in pain.
It helps to cushion the fatal blows.
Its my last resort,
when everything has failed.
When felt perplexed,
I rush to conjure another verse,
to purge fuzziness from my head.
It is a remedy for a broken soul.
I breathe with poetry.
I heal with it.

I am not afraid that people can hurt,
that love may conceal a terrible revelation,
that truth has no sense,
that reason may not apply sometimes,
so i keep poems by my side,
to kindle the feelings inside,
to save the humor for the darkest nights.

Words are my clouds,
to soar in the sky,
to build castles of imagination,
to play with shapes,
to chase shadows,
to flicker the lights.

This craft is old as human spirit.
It is pure and clear as mountain creek,
a mysterious trait in our hearts.
Perhaps, it is a nonsense
of feeling lonesome,
an uncanny substance
with no form and meaning
or alluring thought for feeble minds.
I can't tell for sure.
But it is a hallmark of all times.

Revisiting withered memories became my lot,
since i've lost the trail of time,
flashing past moments in my head. As if i was uprooted from the ground, floating in a limbo.
It is a strange feeling to loose the sense of reality,
when all rules and connections are gone awry,
when everything boils down to a single truth.
I sense in that particular moment, that life is a fast-forwarded footage
of events that have no gravity at all
and leaves a bitter yearning for forgotten feelings,
like sea tides ebbing and flowing,
pushing and pulling, it gently floats one into oblivion where all meaning is broken,
where everything is void.

I imagine the late september rain, dripping on your head
and drawing delicate curves on your cheeks.
Would i remember this moment of serendipity,
trying to unveil the truth in your eyes,
unaware of future peril, oblivious to your betrayal, careless child,
enchanted,
entrhralled,
unmindfull of the state of the world.
I would have drowned into eternity this way.
I could have scattered my fears away.
I might have forgotten the misery,  the longing.
If you could only stay for a time. If you could only delay the fleeting of the moment.
If you could only halt the breaking of the day.

On sunset i settled down to complete the morning verse,
to wash away the load of day's fuss and come clean,
to forget the intentions and cut the excitements short.
I come my place, leaving a part of me outside,
killing the noise at doorstep,
becoming oblivious of daily routine,
ready to start anew in the silence of darkness.
Let's celebrate the darkness.
Let's celebrate the silence.

as the years went on
i learned to linger on,
to take a slow walk
and make a little talk,
to think of sublime
and not to yield to pride,
to blend in a crowd
and not to speak loud
or brag about
or babble around.
I learnt to be humble
and behave with humility,
to be in the middle,
to value civility.
I've come to believe
in the tales of past,
that people remembered
but never did last.

...

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.

Why do i embarked on a poem this regular morning?
Guess i was overflowed by a particular thought or feeling,
or became uncertain about existence.
Perhaps i love the charade of words.
There were people around and inside,
but the void was preeminent.
No one can claim that knows how to live or found the truth.
Its just another lie to indulge ourselves in.
Meaning is found in the unexpected.
It is how you felt about weather on that day.
Just as affection is a fault of mind,
a glitch that God chose not to fix.
I think, what the world would turn,
if you let me in,
but its only a thought.
I've never loved you,
I was a liar.
I was captivated by unconscious drive for nothing.
I've told you, how the world would change, if you take me in.
But actually it wouldn't at all.
I'll be the same for ages,
uncertain and playful.

Time shifts and flips beneath your feet.
The world revovles at a high speed.
Men are in constant fidgeting,
knowing not, what they need.
It is a job of a broken man,
sitting puzzled at the bank of a dried up river, hoping for a good catch,
to speculate on chances *******,
friends lost,
money spent,
feelings trashed,
and values tossed.
I "love" this time, of followers,
sheep-minded folks, desperate for a shepherd, just as Israelis of ancient begged for a king, because every nation had one.
I have to admit, that man is a puppet after all,
of other men or other idols,
of his own image or his own soul.
It is wise to stop the first urge.
It is wise to deny the first impression.
It is ok to stay at bay, while others swim.
It is ok to stay alone, when others dance.
So, uncool is cool!
Do you get this, fool?
Cause you have no time to mull over what you do.
Rip off the veils,
throw out your amulets,
admit you are weak and mortal.
This is your chance to get near God,
to become the master of your own thoughts.
What for, this pomp?
Of faceless mob,
which very soon
will go to slump.
Its inessential outcry
and denial of truth
seems childish goof
with no real proof.
Wait till its plans get destroyed by death.
So, is it wise to get excited?
Is it prudent to get depressed?
Neither way will bring you good.
Neither path will lift your stress.
Wait for incoming blessing
and if its about to befall,
we'll find out the turn of fate.
Does a little misfortune break
your stance? Does your world stand
on crippled legs?
Beware where to put your faith,
it might have shifty floor or ugly face.
Dont trust beauty, it's always camouflaged. You'll pay a fortune for a broken egg.
Imagine when pretty face gets spoiled by a spot of dirt on a tip of nose. It will change whole plot. Heroes will die and villains emerge.
Someone will sit at the bank of a dried up river,
pondering over a lost chance,
hoping for a good catch.
If you do something, do it for its own sake. For the artistry of moves, complexity of thoughts, delicacy of forms and deepness of meaning.
If you'd had something common with holy, you could have  been enlightened
to see that nothing is as it seems.
You could have heard God soothing
to your ears. You could have pillaged your ship built on ancient lies and would have drowned to the deepest bottoms. You would have wanted to be in a free fall, have nothing to stick to, nothing to hold to, no one to rely on. Then you would have relized that freedom is in falling, freedom is in drowning. You might splash the colors and spit the words and call it a self-expression. But you are only a subconsciousness of a sleeping oppression. You can be a fool, but still talk wise. You can be an ugly, but still look nice. Do you have something for yourself to suprise. Before audience gets bored, ready to rise. Unleashing craze with devilish eyes.
Everyone today is  an entertainer.