i trade my soul for 30 minutes walk,
at unspoiled dawn, with no useless talk,
for the silence in afternoon and tranquility at night,
may the earth consumes us all, later or soon,
i'll stay calm i won't fight.
i dont need lover's tender touch,
nor i yearn for a moment of joy.
Life is fleeting, my creedo is such.
Take your pity, take your smile, take them all!
when the relentless noise is dead as an ocean stone
and the air is thin as a string of soul
you can play Vivaldi or Chopin's nocturne
dance for nothing or listen to empty tune
In the world of constant noise,
i pray for a moment of peace,
not to rush for anything,
stay awhile at ease.
Don't say a word,
shut the doors,
stop the clock and breathing, please!
lock the mind,
that ferocious beast!

Writer’s life is destined to misery,
to be hated by what he loves,
to scribble and scribble to make a difference,
in a world with no trust.
He tries to confine sublime into phrases,
bring revelation to ignorant folks.
He builds paths, destroys mazes,
to shed a meaning to meaningless talks.
It doesn't win him bread - what he does.
His art is precious, but no one needs it.
People need lies to get excited,
the truth bores them, they choose to skip it.
Oh, what do you do these days, the honest writer!
You want to deliver a message, burning your heart?
To tell of things you’ve seen and found,
convey divine power and beauty of life,
of genuine feeling and perfect sound?

There are two weapons at man’s disposal:
one is instinct, another’s logic
whether moral or immoral
they are bound to be in quarrel.
Use the first or the last.
It doesnt matter, just be fast!
While the master up above
will roll the dice and flabbergast,
you might still have the chance,
to make decision and hold your stance

There are moments in the past,
that you want to be at
and you know, they'd never last
- it's so sad
because the present is a line in the sand,
between future and the past,
between ocean and the land,
between river and the bank,
that will never come to end.
And tell me friend
what's the use of being sane.
in the hours, that remain.

i hate morning broken with the stink of socks. when my idyllic view of the world becomes troubled by the sheer weight of doom. as the whole life shrinks down to a spot on my finger. i get drawn to the mood of despair, with no memory behind and no hope ahead. What a dread, to feel that way. Like i was dystopian all night and turn blue by the dawn. ***** you blue sky, ***** you blue moon and **** the politics, that brings me gloom.

i discovered God, while searching for inner self.
when i was alone and lost.
He was the product of my loneliness,
а proof, that no one can truly understand my nature. Is it an echo of my voice or a shadow of my image. Feeling or thought,  damnation or salvage. Am i playing with dimming hope.   Am i clinching to cracking rope. Is there abyss down below. I am not sure, i don't know.

some day i woke up in the late morning
with untroubled mind.
thoughts began to dawn on me,
about past, future and the world’s design.
what is like to be a human - a question i couldn’t find the answer.
it is like having a power of decision and being deprived of the power of will.
I read, that God made angels obedient,
but the human...
he gave man a rare power to be on his own,
to make a choice of path to follow.
And the irony is so striking,
that i am confused on whether to laugh or cry.
He let him decide and made compelled to circumstances,
to be a slave of chance and subject to a rolling dice.
Man has a will of exertion,
but not the will to will.
i sense the unhappiness of his state,
but what a wonder to be a human.
his cycle is to sin and regret,
running from darkness to light,
tempted by world’s desire and another of eternal life.
his curious fate has been manifested
on cave writings and carved walls,
in a story of Lot’s wife, turned to a pinch of salt,
in rubbles of stones and gold
and the battles vainly fought.
i love this human and i pity him much,
for i am the one alike.
i can deeply feel his mind and soul,
trembling in shades of dawn

Don’t blame me for i have no command of words.
They fell upon my head on a thoughtfall
and i caught what i could.
and i ducked a lot,
otherwise they could have crushed me.
i am not a good poet
and no good a writer,
but a hell of a shambolic trier.
sorry for the wind in my head,
i am just a residue of what the storm has left.

do science, toiling, thriving, seeking for truth
indulge, being wrapped in a clout of mysteries
get amused, startled, taken aback
Dive into arguments, fall prey to curiosity
be slave of God, worshipper of its wisdom and beauty
Make you ardent preacher, passionate admirer
Lover of good, fighter of truth
What are we, after all?
Wandering creatures

Don't feel sorry for me cause I am a Knight of gloom
I have neither sense of being human,
nor have passion, nor desire.
Just a comet wandering in space,
With no purpose and no place
Will you give me a chance to tell my story,
Which won’t bring me good, neither to you
But I like to imagine of someone,
living inside of me,
who knows my thoughts beforehand,
feels what I feel,
yearns for my talk
I want it to be a voice,
that makes my mind and body to shiver,
with hands as needles, piercing me
I have no cause to fight for but myself
I have no cause to die for but myself
Blame me as you like
Cause you’ll never know, what is like, to be me
I won't ask for approval,
I won't ask for appraisal
I am not desperate for your touch
Yes I am a gay, because I am fond of
Brilliant minds and souls.
So don't blame me, that i can't find a girl,
for they are hollow as tree trunk

This age is the worst of whirlwinds,
of minds lost and souls scattered,
Puppets stringed with wills fettered,
unaware of times shattered
and clinched to things of worldly matters.
There is no guide to survive these events, tragic,
no time to apply for a power of magic,
can't stay aloof or lay unchallenged,
something  must be done and habits managed,
to change for good
and break the cages.
At least we try to overcome the risk of embarrassment
and fight temptation to show off,
not to lose the clear judgement,
to stop and look around,
when crowds rush to abyss with veils in front
and minds intoxicated,
unable to resist the urge to run for stuff fabricated.
We'll be enemies to friends and friends within enemies.
Always ask questions and not to pray for answers,
but dig and scavenge in wilderness of knowledge,
do things for their own sake
and always thrive for perfection
not for God, not for principles, not for ***,
but for perfection's sake.
The worst is to lose identity,
become a slave of indolent mob,
to be blind to light and sighted to darkness,
to loose the place to stop.
Remember to talk to inner god,
he might know the truth,
get injected with words, ideas and books of wisdom,
to shield from craze of this age's groove.
Dead could be precious than living
ideas, than mount of gold.
No one knows anything
it's only a dirt of the world.

an unexpected poem is a lightning strike
jolted bolt in a morning stride
it has no rhyme and no design
just careless words, sold for a dime

you find them in a forgotten street
under deep waters and dark creeks
beneath the cold of  fallen leaves
they are not pearls or golden bricks
but a ***** cork of mortal trees

I’ve got a friend,
his name is Bill.
He lives in my head
and eats no meal.
He is like a ghost,
which haunts me down.
He is a noone but a circus clown.
I like Bill, coz he's a lonely guy.
His life is tightly bound to mine.
We walk together and chat at nights.
Bill is my only mate and my delight.
And when i am distressed or badly lost,
Bill comes gently and takes my hand.
He whimpers like a dog, on a rainy day.
He caresses my head and makes me glad.
I can’t imagine life without Billy.
He is the only friend who makes me breezy.
His nose is chilly,
but eyes are beady
I love this guy by the name of Billy!

i walk the streets in this lovely morning
and think of nothing
but a simple poem
the trees are golden
and birds are free
it's all there is
what you like to see

Could you stay the same
Many years away
When glory in the flames
And faith has gone astray

Will you be the same
Many miles away
When love’s so badly failed
And you’ve got no word to tell
To make her come back

Can you stay the same
When parents in the grave
And you will never see
your daddy’s friendly face

When mom’s kind reply
Won’t calm you in the night
And home will never hear
Her childish joy, delight

Will you be the same
When friends will claim your wealth
They shut the door before you
And tell to go away

Will i be the same
when this poem’s dead
and no one will remember
pretty words i’ve said

can you stay the same
when hit by success
all acclaim your name
and dance with no recess

Would you be the same
after pouring rain
when drops had crawled your ears
and washed away your  brain

is there place to hide
in the raging storm
down the ocean’s tide
under the warmth of stones

will you be the same
when failure strike you lame
you seek refuge
from overwhelming shame
people will point their fingers
and say you're out of game

i doubt you can decide for sure
in failure, grief, success or glory
you stay the same
and will endure
no being sorry,
no giving way to worry,
relentless, strong and wise

would you stay the same
never looking back
With uncertain future
And forgotten past

Will you still be praying
When thrown into hell
For sins you’ve not committed
And thoughts you’ve never had
Or will you keep faith in God
When no evidence is given
Knowing deeds you’ve done
Will never be forgiven

Can you love a person
Despite the conditions
On any circumstances
Regardless admonitions
When you’ve spent everything
But received no prize
Would you be determined
To make another try

its all about the looks
believe me,
which pierce the darkness and bring a light
it leans some people to forgiveness
and makes others feel delight

eyes can tell so much, believe me
they are path to soul,
a mirror of life
along the crooked ways of meanness
they give us session of respite

have you felt a look, that gives hope
and courage
firms your faith, instills belief
that leads you to the moment of salvage
and frees you from the chains of grief

mind is full of uncertainty
and will is chained to ground
heart is choking under the weight of loneliness
and it seems there is no way out

don't have memories to recall
all are gone like momentary joy
and faces of people i used to know
can tell anything no more

i have never been to this kind of state
with no hope and no regret
jolted by the wind of fate
here and there, pathetic and disgraced

I hate poetry, cause its an illusion,
a resilient disease, with no cure.
I hate poetry, cause there is no way out.
I am stuck with it, and so lured.
I am not certain about my future,
nor can keep the trail of time.
With every word i sound so stupid.
With every poem i loose my mind.
I pray to God, to relieve my fears,
to scatter the doubt and pure my soul.
I shout and cry with helpless tears
and ask to grant my wish once more.
But when i am saved from this despair,
i feel lost as if in flare.
I lone for madness, i used to carry.
I want my virus back! I am crazy!

I am sick and poetry's my cure.
It cannot help me, but i am drawn to it.
I do not care if its vile or pure,
just give me words, so be it.

The words is what i need and not the sound,
i search for melancholy they drive.
I spit on grammar and syntax they are bound,
and lone for feelings they keep inside

The world will never accept my point,
they use forms and figures and God knows what.
I'll *** on walls of every moment,
with all the zeal and vigour i've got.