If a bad, unsettling thing is taking place,  
Making me humiliating in my inner space,  
At some boiling, anxious pace.  
Holding tightly, proving biased case,  
Losing the sight of self-knowing’s sole grace.  
I’m just consolidating my inner defined haze,  
To make things appear true in my defined chase,  
To claim my augury true at every place.  
Handling, exploiting inner flowing, mazy pace,  
Imagining to feel hard the defined charm to chase.  
Knowing this decision of self-harass,  
But this is so smothering, exhausting case for himself.  
Where the world is just the consolidating of inner defined haze,  
Blaming world and stuff to be constructing mess.  
My face, my fears, guilty gears and all phrase  
Are working only to fulfill imagined embrace.  
Even this is something been given to me by some random accidental bass,  
Originating from some muddy collision on rough surface.  
This blaze has, if you see, innumerable face,  
None of which has their own eyes but handed gaze.  
While there are either none or all sovereign hands,  
Just like cloudy shapes, random patterns intermingled colors have forms in void names.

Your tears, your fears, and the face smiling with smears.
Craving for delighting gears?
Different degrees of layers.
And the inner. Blares.
Longing to keep everything nears.
Claiming, declaring jeers.
To show Whom it calls peers,
Gulping and tasting beers.
For both its musty, tasty spheres.
Without any inquiry, clear.
Avoiding any steer.
Not seeing one’s own deeds soaked in sneer.
Having blemishes severe,
Exploiting all sincere.
Distorting all revere,
Full of inside Outside veneer,
Cleverly picking the souvenir.
At the top of ****** Cavalier.
Smiling compulsively hiding guilts rear.
Considering itself a volunteer.
Overlooking its own enslaved gears.
Just interfere doesn’t hear its own inner Moaning Blare,
As in damp, muddy layer.
Some random movements with no care.
All nature painting it’s snare,
Stinking wholly with bubbly glare.
Like numerous shapes having stare.
Carving hollow appear.
Same as clouds, smoke sands, and sprayers,
Making a world of fancy seer.
Seeing them staring making pairs,
Giving meanings and imposing dreams like a Strayer.
Remai ignorant in mental volunteer.
Flowing, blowing, soaking their
In and through near everywhere.
Unless until he gets clear.
Conscious thought has form in smear
Are one pair and Just same payer,
Which may dismay its own Blare.
Even conscious or super sayer,
Has the same. Abode here.
Mighty thinking, conscious mere.
Can reside in around,
Relative everywhere.
Like grey background,As greyer,
Is impossible ,Not even rare.
Is capable of,
Inhere Only in monistic Shunya stare.

You don’t need to imagine fear.
You won’t hear
The sound that you bear
In, around, and near.
That something here
Will be taken away into tear.
No, you won’t have to bear
The pain that you hear
With the blemishes and smear
That you have imagined around and near.
Just expose the fear,
Let the light pierce inside right here.
Again, the imagined sound that you hear
That valuable things will be taken away from near.
This sound itself is not near
But inside the smear
That you have smeared
Inside your being, all around, and near.
It’s just light and luminance, not a killer.
You need to expose all your fancies and fear,
Just now and right here.
It will only tell you how much can they bear
The weight you think they bear
Both in your pleasures and in fear.
Let the light alone tell you whether they are sheer or smear?
Joyfully expose your fear.
It’s light, the luminance, not a killer.
It’s like a mirror
For the view of the rear.
It’s there, not a terror,
To make you see whether
Things behind and inside are clear?
Because you do not see but imagine,
Hence you fear the smear
That bears the imagined pain and weight around and near.
Why don’t you see and hear
That the things and people you think are dear
Are the only ones who make you fear?
It’s nothing but smear
Inside and around you, layer after layer.
Not even single but in pairs and pairs.
You have imagined them to be dears.
You never hear
Them to clear
Whether they are sheer or smear?
Expose every bit of your being to the light, the luminance. It’s not a killer.
Even if it appears to you as a terror or thriller,
Is it really or a smear?
Like hallows, floaters, and glares,
All around the eyes but are the most near.
And you think it is the light which makes you fear
And taking away that you think is near,
The smear
That lays weight that you bear
Inside, around, and near.
Imagining them to be dear,
Whether or not they are sheer.
One thing that the smear imagines is that they are the only dear,
The only near.
But aren’t they the sour source of all your fear?
They are very near.
You don’t see them as a smear.
Take the light that shows their faces more clear,
Like hallows, floaters, and glares,
All around the eyes but are the most near.
Expose, expose, it’s the light waiting for you to jeer on smears and clear
All that you think is heavier,
Giving you smear,
Layer after layer,
Not single but in pair.
But you are the one who asks to secure,
Like one who’s immature,
Firmly holding fists
To secure that are near you think are dear.
But anyway, it’s the light, it will only illuminate them
And make it clear
That all your smear
Are the only things you bear
In, around, and all near.
All the blemishes and smear
Alone are that you all have here.
But you think changing gear
In all the fear to save the near that you think are dear
Will save something greater to make you bear,
Because you want to hear
From the dear
That you are the peer,
Worthy and seer.
Then why are they your fear
If they are the ones you expect to be dear
To hear you in their near?
Don’t hesitate, be open and clear.
It’s light, the illuminer, the winner, not a killer,
Right there, right here, everywhere,
Not near or dear but all in and throughout the entire sphere.

Keep things straight and naked.  
Keep everything off and non-soaked.  
That what you think decorated and baked.  
Contains within the same fakeness locked.  

Open and let all the musty stinking  
Come up and go vaporized,  
Otherwise, you will remain rotten plus fermented.  
How long do you think you can keep your life choked?  
You won’t need to grow old for dying,  
Because you’re all the time deprived of life, filled with death, and faded.  

You keep running after desires,  
Keep roaming scared in wires.  
Carrying scars and smears,  
Burdened with expectations and peers.  
You are not someone who can make banters,  
On your own because you’ve taken affinity, all the filth  
With time’s layers after layers.  

Do you call this life yours?  
Gored, filled all among, you at the centre bored,  
Living in shoes and by strings of a thousand lords.  
But refrain from the finest naked honesty as if you can’t afford.  

All miseries and bad faith can be cleared so smooth,  
With a sharp lightning blade.  
No matter how much cumbersome, grown, unwashed, dried is beard,  
Just one naked lighted sight is needed,  
To do away with all filth layered.  

Like one tiny lamp is required,  
To shatter the darkness concentrated,  
And make them go away and faded.

In the sky there is a smoke
which having shape and having form
there is an eye beside another
which has a nose beside a mouth
having a face making a smile but changing smile into a guile,,
but making the guile only to smile,,
this smile is fake 'cause having guile,,
it having smiling on the face
to hide the moaning in the face
says-" having smile I own the face
I want to smile hence own the face"

it as long as owning the face,
has to own even menace, even this mess,,,
making a case,,
in the menace, now owns the case,,
making it harder to efface,,
the smoky haze facing the case,
but it's very soothing to embrace
the smoky face,,
for claming smile,it seeks as face ,,
now has the power of its haze,
(to)declare the rest of the haze,,
as not it's face,, not the same face,as something else,,
which shows this mess of its own case,,
confining grace, Lonesome to face ,,
making a border, for only bother,
wider and broader,, clinging on smother,,
Being a vile in the same guile,,
Just for a smile,,
Making itself as something else,,
Having its cause in its own grab,
Making cases uttering blab
Depending on rest,in messy haste,
Taking as true, as if a guest,,
Itself a guest,in hazy haste,
And the rest,as not a chaste,
Now the non-chaste, being taken for a taste,
Why for taste?
For Whose taste?
Isn't still in haste?
Innocent guest,,
To lick and touch,
In its own clutch,
Which says the face,
I'm the owner ,
To efface,the smother in the border in its case,
Now to consume,
Because of Assume,
For just resume, the costume
It has taken and presume,
For the smile of inner guile,
Has become vile,
Making difference
Giving reference
While the guile,
Not for smile
But is craving only its cleanse,
In real sense
Seeking a chance
But the power of haze,
Makes it chase
That real chance
Not in the cleanse
But in a difference
Of giving reference
Of craving face
Says- having smile I own the face,
Want intense
Smile hence
Own the face
Assuming soothing embrace,
To consume rest of the haze
As not its face
But something else
Keeping difference
In hazy gaze
In hastey haze,
That is the mess
Be in a vile within for guile,,
Just for true smile
Which has no owner
Just a play without a player,
'Cause the player never bother
Or lick the play itself as something else,,
Knowing itself of the same clay
As of the play
Even this mess is in the Play,,
Of the same clay
Making the face Just for our play
But the face making grimace
And taking as
As a reference and difference
Making sense something else
Owning and craving to efface,
The difference
Of reference
Choose to consume
In vague chase
In smoky haze,,
Now
Let's go back,, to the haze
Yes yes the face,,
In its own ways,,
It's the same SPACE,,
Just the play itself,
It is given more, to those who have,
While who lacks,
It to have,
Is deprived even what it has,,
Because they do math
That's how the Maya,
Comes in monistic space

I saw a luster lady,,
Actually a body,
Concealing myself in my inner shady,
Hiding the body too in the glady,,
Focused only on my moody,
****** imaginations of the body,
Wasn’t accepting the original,
Only being visceral,
Like the random flows of tidal,
Half ,random and glidle,
Rejecting other images of the same body,
Not seeing the whole with what I was being ready,,
Smearing myself with my own mind of muddy,
Constructing what I already have shoddy,
I’m some fluidic noddy,
Not seeing the entire sphere
Getting tear,
Wallowing in Smear,
Receiving back my own jots and gear,
Claiming of being some seer,
Sinking in stinking shadowy beer,
Not even deserving a jeer,
Isn’t it all clear,,
That body isn’t my object as a seer,
But my own smeary fear, projecting here,
Turn inward,just recede,,
Removing precede,
Stop intercede,
Enough trying succeed,
Just concede,
Not only what you’ve believed,
But also the one who has deceived,
All the time claiming nothing but mislead,
Don’t just read , precede,
All that you see in the tiny Mirage now Recede.

Why do you fear so much?
Life is life, it’s the source, not a hoarse.
You live at coarse, not with the core.
Except the core, it’s everything unsure and insecure.
We just take the body, society, and serendipitous accidents and start calling them “our SELF.”
Don’t we value only the PELF?
Why the PELF as something SELF?
Okay then, what else do we have as something SELF but not the PELF?
If not, then what are all the sects?
Not of the culture but even of percepts.
It’s all about the pact, in fact.
Social, moral, cultural impact.
Harnessing all the tact,
Forgetting who is in impact,
‘cause it has taken the pelf,
Not something else,
But the only self,
Emanating all the percepts
Through concepts.
It had to accept
In obligation of the tact,
Consuming all the impact,
No matter what is the fact.
‘Cause in compelling thirst and tempt,
Sounds cozy to distort the fact,
Not the percept but concept,
As if life is an impact of something threat,
A threatening act.
But it’s the same as you put in your concept,
With a project of concept,
As some hoarse,
Not of core, of course,
As a remorse,
While core is sober,
No need to hover
Beneath the summer of the fever.
Newer ever, nothing to hide,
Just inside, not the wide but the glide,
Free of any side,
But just unbind
The winds, embrace to unwind,
Not labeled mind.
It is the why of the reader and the writer, not the fighter, but only lighter, the most tighter and brighter, in which even the sighter
Holds tighter, the fighter, taking as lighter, a sympathizer, like moisturizer, not having even the moist of itself, just outer shelf,
Taking as self.

That scene of outside the window from inside the window ,,
Is like me,,
The widow,
Of whose I can’t know,
Not because I can’t find him,
But because I’ve learnt to look for him,
From the social and biological laws and windows,
How do I know,,
That to show,
The inner blow,
Of mist and smoky snow,
The itching of reaction among,
Which don’t know themselves but long,
For not soothing but for dying,
The chemicals underlying,
Inside the body-mind craving,
Constantly even if appear non-clinging,
They keep insidiously longing,
Licking ******* lying,,
How this singing,
Belongs to me?
That scene of outside of the window
From inside the window
With Me among the widow,
Clinging to my own shadow,
Is anything without the window?
The outside and inside too,
Are anything except the window,
Is even the window the same window,
For itself the window?
Or these three ,
Me ,inside- outside and window,
Are the one another side of the same window,
Above and below,
To each other,,
Having the scene of outside and inside with me in between and relative to the window