I tremble at the very thought
That knowledge is a vice
As long as its not learnt,
Not imposed upon,
Free thinking individuals
Are a bane to the society
Because they say things
They actually mean
Unlike those that connive
And cheat and con
With their truth-seeming lies
To make the world spin
Just with the weight of their guilt
That nobody ever accepts
The taboo to simple truths
That requires a magnanimous courage
To even comprehend saying it:
They are of no benefit,
Individuals with a mind of their own
Simply because
They never cease to disagree to mediocrity
But aspire to influence
To inspire the heroic in man
Who might as well choose
To abscond the path to their greatness
And instead seek salvation
Without realising that both
Are one and the same.

I sat down
Trying to write a script-
Something to awe,
Before you decide to draw
This entire joke to a close-
And I think my hands
Moved of their own accord
Some ghost possession, I guess,
Or maybe I just wanted to write about ghosts
Anyway (read twice)
There was this human
Who turned Fae-
Argh no, scratch that,
Too cliche,
This Fae, she turned human!
Ahh see now that the story begins to weave!
I mean, I guess,
I weave the story
Or rather
This ghost guiding my hand.
He seems the same type as Casper, though,
Except with the creative range
Of a twenty year old
In the middle of college,
And lost all his imagination.
Words- WORDS!
Ah woe is me, she cried,
Because in a world where
She was supposed to be immortal,
She was stripped of her pride.
And there the straw ****** dry,
No creative juice these days
The ghost came by.
(Because he was intangible?
And anyway couldn’t consume
All that gave our meat sacks
Ill deserved pleasure?)
I pat the ghost on his head
Like an affectionate pet
And ask him to go on,
Because even though trash,
(HA, GOLDEN)
The only reason I was writing
Was through his pen.
She used to be a goddess in her own realm,
All powerful, all mighty,
Beautiful, very pretty,
(here we both are stuck-
To catch words, flowery,
That they would attract the best of bees,
To pollinate, and pass on the word,
Of this unfinished story),
And we keep the pen down
As an attempt
To at least attract wasps-
But now,
She gave up what she treasured most
For a love
That promised itself until eternity
Into this man
She had looked all from afar
And decided
It was either him or nothing at all.
I turn to him,
Yes, the friendly
Burnt-out college dude,
“Wait, isn’t this the plot
Of every major fantasy?
Or are you just channeling yours’
Through me?
All the time wasted on assignments,
And I become your bard
Guiding through a weird
Fanfiction?”
I don’t get an answer,
Obviously, because,
As I said, he is intangible,
Beyond words, beyond form,
A presence
That might not be here at all.
(I also cannot see him
Shaking his head
As I type word after word, muddled,
As he chews on imaginary bread.)
But somehow the words erase
(I know this because of the
Frantic clicking of the backspace bar
And a cursor
The seems to have forgotten
All that was written
By the predecessor-)
Written over minutes long,
As though my will does not count
Into all that he had planned.
So we begin our charade again:
Him, channeling all his pent up anxiety
Over ghost college-
Ah I think the
Math assignment due
Did everything but spur him on
To finish this poem,
And his lack of creativity
Into this newfound hobby.
She went on to confess
Her undying love
For this man, mortal,
And he looked at her
Long and lost,
And said,
“Who are you?”
Sounding so similar to
All those I had
Tried to speak to-
Ah! The trauma!
Woe is me.
There are shitposts
And there is poetry
The artistic skill required to
Merge them both
Is just treachery
To everyone who possesses a brain.
And when I am just
On the verge of pressing the cross
Not one that will lead to salvation-
But definitely one that will
Liberate the reader’s sensibilities
My mouse moves,
Saves the file,
And mails it to you instead.

This wouldn't be
Much more of a poem
Than the being
I'm trying to pose as,
But more of a meandering
Snake
(For a foolish mind)
Curves of instances
Untraceable.
And I was stunned
At a gradual realisation
That I'd not really like
To retrace my steps.

We are stuck in a loop
Where we are objects ourselves,
Learned to put on a display,
Well sought after prices
And used as the display cases
To flaunt the prowess
Of whoever owns us for this moment.

I yearn for someone
Who sees the person within,
And I know so do you.

Count your blessings, I say,
And ours is time,
Until eternity.

Myriad colours and patterns flash before my eyes,
A movie of sorts, fireworks,
And I see happy faces and sad
In the mind's eye
While the real one slowly closed
And my world is darkness.

If not for the hope
That dreary days will once end,
I couldn't see forward.

Asleep
Knowing full well
Your presence remains
Paltry
Next to all her desires
Is a cruel
Kind of joke.

If reminded of
Your own mortality,
Would you ponder over it
And see it as an inevitable end,
Or would you choose to live
In ignorance?
It is immaterial,
Because the living only matters,
And it's ways;
Knowing the ends
Doesn't grant you knowledge
Of the means.

A man died under my care today.
Several do, tears swirled,
Such is the state of the world
Drowning in dismay.
He held my hands,
The grip of a newborn holding on
To dear life, Will his weapon.
I look at the thin bands
Of his fingers against mine
And see flashes of several before
Which held on with the same fervor
Inevitably falling limp, then their ashes in brine.
There is no structure or integrity
In a mind not allowed to dwell
On circumstances that make your heart swell.
I still look down in brevity.
Since long I have been detached
Lest my heart give out, hiding,
Behind an illusion of my tidings
And clothe myself in denial unmatched.

An eye for an eye
Makes this a world
Of cyclopi,
And two,
Society goes back to
Being blind.

I sift through years of work
To find a bright enough poem
That lights rather than puts out
The carefully cultivated theme
Of a place of comfort, though
Only a semblance.

Realisations are often compared to
Impacts, being hit, spontaneous,
And yet this one's nature,
An archaic unaffectedness,
That those old words
Don't seem to be mine anymore.

The fun about puzzles
Is seeing an entire mural
Come alive
One piece after another
Connecting ends
And patterns-
That seem not to work
At first glance.
And maybe life is only all that,
A series of universal coincidences.

Insert a quote here
Bound to make you smile.

Insert another
That makes you wipe your wet eyes.

Another
That you relate to so well
It's almost as if I see into your soul.

And a quote
To spur you on.

I'll tell you all the things
That you think you want to hear.

And keep my mind silent
Without giving voice
To all those that you should.

I got your message
Through these winds,
Carrying all the weight of your heart,
And send back a reply.
They are done crying,
Over my shoulder,
So I send them back to you,
In paltry hopes
For correspondence.

I yearn to be
In all the places
That we cannot reach
And maybe taste that success
That people claim
To be so sweet.

Souls are said to be connected
With red threads
Forming bonds to last.
Whenever I feel lost
I trace the thread
Connecting me and you
And manage
To find myself again.

Who's the richest-
A woman with a full purse,
Or a woman with a full heart?

Even fruits
That slowly ripe
Rot.

Why should all poetry
Be a search for meaning
Of life, of love, of pain
And paint each, blushing,
Until you can’t peel away
Those emotions, that
Emotionless and inanimate
Entities bring about.
Look at me,
I write awfully lot about
The sun, the moon, the stars
Those which have never uttered a single word,
Let alone shine on us
Individually,
And magically
I manage to belong.
We breathe in life
Into every word we pen down
And so did they-
In this poem of sorts.
When we look up
Into an unending darkness,
We still see
The same moon,
Don’t we?

It's a pity, really,
That things bright and gold, subtle,
Cannot simply be caught on camera.
It demands the presence of the observer
Who in their true mind
That cannot conjure up it's radiance,
To watch it personally
With awe.

I cried a few times
When the sky did too
And decided
That the sky reflects my mood.
Today, the sky cried,
And I cried with it too,
I took it upon myself
To reflect the sky's mood.

...tangible, but not yet,
As feelings often aren't,
But feel like a person next to you,
Solid, within reach,)
That putting these thoughts into paper
Becomes a herculean task-
For how can you
Give form to something
That yearns to be formless?
It takes much courage to put your being on display,
Unguarded,
Where each word is laced with glass shards, kite ropes,
That can cut and make bleed,
Yet that's what artists do...

There are millions of stories
Drifting clouds paint
Each day brings
A new sunset.

How easy is it
To lure me in
With whispered promises
Of better futures
Alas in the contract I signed,
I forgot to read the fine print.