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Biplav Shrestha Jul 2015
The driftwood drifters
Clearing their way across the asphalt
Crackling bones as they make their way
In eternal pursuit of the undertow
The chains that bind them will be their nooses

The wretched have their way
With the shells of all what remains
The whispers and their lullabies
Drifting off to sleep

I hate the way I feel today
So full of clarity and calmness
The voices don’t distort anymore
My vision is in 1080p
And I hate it

I hate the balance
Between the movements of the frames,
I spit out my verses
In rapid successions
Like vintage foreign films
In black and white
Void of sound
Followed by cue cards
APPLAUSE

"The old dogs" as he liked calling them,
Never bothered to fit the molds of the societal standards
How am I any different from any of them?
Don’t we all resent the hollowness we harbor within us?

The replies come pouring in
It’s always the same
"You think too much
That's whay you're so miserable"
The chains that bind them
Will be their nooses

And I hate all of it.
Biplav Shrestha Dec 2014
Tread with caution
You are not in a dream
I have felt the rose vines growing along the walls of your soul
They cannot hold back the blistering rays of tomorrow’s sunrise
You, the harbinger of tranquility and silence
The shadow that heal the wounds of unfulfilled remembrance
You, who is still pure in a world that is tainted,
The essence of every ode that has ever truly been recited
Find the place where darkness subsides
Conceal yourself among the silhouettes
Bury yourself among the ruins
Mask yourself with the ashes of the fallen
But don’t let the lifeless hands of reality find you
Biplav Shrestha Oct 2014
Summer breeze
Like diamonds falling upon faultless skin
The sunlight draws a halo
A crown of gold upon cascading waves of black
The shadows
They cast light onto you
Darkness onto me
Making doves out of dragonflies
Consuming without compromise

Winter has since come and gone
Taking everything with the winds
The due drops rest upon my pores
Like rhinestones on the shore
I stand beside the sodden ash
Dark and cold with scattered grey
You come along like a thunderstorm
To push me down and then go away

I rest a verse upon my wrist
Every letter of every word belongs to you
The words, they rhyme
With every grime
Of my tattered and broken chords
I hope you see me with those eyes
As I fall onto the starry skies
With every breath I float away
My vacant vessel in visceral display

Autumn. . . .
Biplav Shrestha Aug 2014
Seems like a lot has been happening in the world lately. Maybe even a little too much for me to take it all in in one go. One of my favorite actors from when I was a kid, died sometime last week. Back when we only had 4 channels to choose from, seeing him on the tube was kind of a big deal to us. Two days later I woke up to the news of yet another actor that I really liked passing away. Unlike the first man, towards whom my adoration had, with time, slowly dwindled into something nonexistent, Robin Williams was someone whom I greatly admired and idolized. His sense of humor, attitude and mannerisms made him seem like he was from a different galaxy if not a different universe. It came as quite a surprise to me, reading that he had committed suicide. Here was a man, who was, in my opinion, among the funniest and smartest people in the modern world, someone who was loved and adored by basically everyone who had ever seen him. And to think that behind that warm - smiling exterior dwelled a tormented being that was burdened by some unknown - dark entity, a force that in the end, got the best of him seemed all too contradictory! I suppose being funny is not the same as being happy after all.

Is this what has come of us? Smart people having to succumb to the need to hide behind masks, long enough for them to morph into their permanent faces! Where does that leave the likes of us? If people we look up to for inspiration or people to whom we relate most to, turn out to be nothing but an act, doesn't it mean that we don’t really know anyone at all? Maybe I knew him, or should I say that I knew parts of him. I certainly felt like I did. When I was a kid, my father would rent a VHS tape from the local store at Rs.50 a piece every month. Needless to say, I always looked forward to those days. "Hook" was one of the first English movies I remember watching; the other being "The man in the iron mask". I remember how happy it made me feel, sitting in a room with my dad and my cousins, not having to worry about a single thing. Throughout the years, whenever I come upon the movie, I always find myself reliving my childhood. Dead Poet Society, Awakenings, Jack, Goodwill Hunting, Jumanji and Bicentennial Man are still some of my favorite movies. Robin Williams' movies basically made my childhood. And I just can't get over the fact that he's no longer with us. I feel this hollowness within myself and I'm not ashamed to say that it breaks my heart.

“Happiness in intelligent people is the rarest thing I know.”

I find it ironic; the thought that comedians speak more sense than politicians in today’s society. Humor is an art form that I think asks of people to delve into the facts and the specifics of reality. And as I grow older, with every passing day, I realize just how horrible reality can be at times. The modern media has manipulated and reshaped our way of thinking. We live in a world where individuality is mostly frowned upon, where people find happiness in the mediocre and the mundane, where people spend countless hours of every day working out at gyms, approaching the aesthetic conditions of gods and goddesses while their minds starve and their senses withers. It is, in a way, almost a given that the smartest people are also among the saddest in the world. And who’s to blame them? Who wouldn't be sad when they realize just how much tragedy goes unnoticed by the masses! And when you reach to a point where you feel like you can’t take everything in anymore, absolutely no good can come of it. Things like depression and paranoia are basically symptoms of reality; a side effect of being just too consciously present in the moment.

“Those who don’t study history are doomed to repeat it. Yet those who do study history are doomed to stand by helplessly while everyone else repeats it.”

What would the world be like without the free thinkers, the musicians, the writers, the artists, the athletes, the comedians? People who show us the levels the human body and mind is capable of achieving? A world, void of idols and role models who dared to dream; people who fought against the concept of having to fit the common mold, who dared to push the boundaries of what’s acceptable and possible? In my opinion, these people play just as important of a role as scientists and engineers do to extend the scope of human existence. But there’s always a price to pay for originality, isn't there? The mechanism of creativity requires fuel, fodder and sometimes even human livestock for sustenance. And sometimes the process itself takes so much that it ends up bringing the whole thing crumbling down.

“We don't read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And science, law, business, engineering; these are necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, art, love; these are what we stay alive for.”

I have this policy, a rule that I set for myself where I try my hardest not to build a personal relationship with the people I idolize and admire. It’s taken me quite a few disappointing encounters to realize that my adoration towards an artist or a musician or a poet or a writer is only limited to their art and not towards them as individuals. Often times I've found myself ending feeling disappointed in the presence of my “heroes” owing to the fact that they've never really lived up to my expectations of them. Excluding a few cases, it’s pretty much been a giant cesspool of disappointments and frustrations. Losing my admiration for the people I still respect is a risk I’m not willing to take. This is something I have learned from experience; reinforced only by the events that took place last week.

“Forests may be gorgeous but there is nothing more alive than a tree that learns how to grow in a cemetery.”

I used to think that happiness was a choice; that people could find happiness if they really wanted to. That it was as simple as starting a car or turning on a tube light. But I’m not sure of that anymore. I’m not even sure that happiness means the same thing to everyone. Now I think that in order to be satisfied with yourself and your life, you need to maintain a certain level of consistency on a daily basis. Finding a mindset that makes you feel good and then sticking to it. Those of us with “supposed” stable minds do all we can to live a regular life; doing our very best to not have to subject ourselves to the vices of self sedation. Some aren't even aware of this and some need to remind themselves of their normality ever second of every waking hour. Whatever the case, people need to realize that actions have consequences that don’t just affect them but also the people around them. And though we have no choice on this matter, we always have an option on whether the vibes we emit are going to be positive or negative. It is about the only thing us as human beings have power over.
Biplav Shrestha Nov 2019
Unguided a ship sets sail towards the void of nothingness
Embarking in a peaceful voyage under the stars
Pushed forward by merely the somber breeze
The salt seeps within its hollowness

A quiet symphony of memories persists  
Swaying in shades of burning embers
How long till the waters give in?
Till it is winter again.
I only write when I'm sick and miserable.
Biplav Shrestha Aug 2014
No easy feat
To reignite the spark
Of former glory
In desperation,
In certain shades of grey
Callused fingertips
With visible scratch marks
On arcs above the base
Of my essence

Things I lack
I cannot fathom
Things I long for
I cannot recall
The spaces in between
My fingers
The thinnest of cages

Need I surrender?
To the shadows I harbor
Need I reach out to?
My darkest of virtues
In points
With purpose
Void of morality


Should I start afresh?
Search for new beginnings
In avenues of ember,
In company of people
Only I can remember?

Maybe fall a little
Into the unknown
Dig through my memories
In search for things to atone

No easy feat
To reignite the spark
Of former glory
In desperation,
In certain shades of grey
Callused fingertips
With visible scratch marks
On arcs above the base
Of my essence.
Inspired from one of the poems on the site.
Biplav Shrestha May 2016
Days of gloom and distant thunder

Tired eyes yield empty slumber

Of silent nights and scarlet skies

Songs of autumn and lost goodbyes
Biplav Shrestha Dec 2015
"When is it ever the right time for anything? When is it ever just about the music?" I think to myself as the band that I had come to see becomes inaudible background noises to the voices of my own making. "It's what you want, not what you need."As much time as I spend singing to myself in silence in grey - hazy days, any urge to open myself up to people lasts only momentary. The mask slips back up faster than the voices can end their sentences. That's how it always is! I walk past my days in auto pilot, leaving but a whisper behind. I've grown used to it over the years! Stand in line. Say "Good morning" to people at work.Talk about wine, **** and women on rooftops of cold abandoned houses. Discuss art, music and poetry with people whose faces resemble my mask. You keep walking because that's what everyone else is doing. There are occasional outbursts of static excitement that I try to hold one to. But my fingers are always a little too big to get a good grip. It's like trying to watch your favorite TV show with a weak signal. My days become indistinguishable. Every day is the same. Even when you get what you want, you're not satisfied. I never liked the word"numb" but I don’t think that there's a better word for the way I mostly feel. I often find myself walking on social eggshells, pushing myself closer and closer to the boundaries I know I shouldn’t cross. It's cold outside and I need to get home.
Biplav Shrestha Mar 2016
I was listening to the winter winds
With one ear leaned against the wall
Thinking of where I had been
With just myself and nothing more
What else could I have asked for?
What else could I have done?
With pages as blank as the skies above
What more could I have sung?
I dreamt a dream when I was 12
Of frozen trees and scattered grey
Into the night I stood awake
Till all my fears had strayed away
It is the frost around my reflection
Reason the season stays constant within me
The weight conceded within elation
The remedies of these tragedies
Lead to nothing but more agony
Biplav Shrestha Jan 2015
On to this old road I walk again
Leaving but a whisper behind
Every step as slow as the one before
My fate it seems is still very much undefined
If there is just one forever
I want to spend it with myself
I don't know if I'll make it past this winter
But at least I wont be spending it thinking of you.
Biplav Shrestha May 2016
You like meeting people you need to keep up with.
It's usually the other way round with you, isn't it?
The world never lacked people whose demons your demons couldn’t dance with!
Now you come across someone who can tame and silence them and you choose to run.
You're so far away from everything,
And still I'm close to nothing.
Random thoughts
Biplav Shrestha Oct 2017
"You're like an open book!" she told me, "only with most of the pages torn out". As the sounds from the vehicles outside plaster my thoughts with smoke and grease, all I could muster out of my core was a broken smile and an unnoticeable nod. Aslaysha could always read people better than they would ever bother to understand themselves. Back then, I was one of those people. Dumb and naïve,drunk with youth, the world was my canvas and I used it to clean the filth off of my boots. "You're different from the rest; I can almost see the vines wrapped around your bones". "If only you would let me". Things were different then as things are different now. I was yet to experience my first real heartache, my first real kiss, my first plunge into the abyss that would eventually crush my spirit and then rebuild me from my ruins. Aslaysha was my anchor, the only thing holding me together. Needless to say, the day she left was the day the whole world went away. Perhaps the answers to all of life's mysteries can be found at the bottom of another bottle. (10/30/2017)
Biplav Shrestha Aug 2014
Sweet surrender in golden arches of time
Lay me down upon your eternal void
Rid me of all my immoral virtues
Conceal my soul tonight

Eluding answers to my perpetual yearnings
Come to me bearing boulders of grey
Take these old weights off my shoulders
Point me towards the path astray

Howling winds of youthful years passed
Bestow me upon my innocence I've lost
Cleanse me upon the dust of old
Grant me bearings to the roads once crossed

Endless pleasures in shades of blue
Point me towards the setting sun
Purge me off all my deformed persuasions
Walk me to a path untrodden

Wailing whispers drenched in velvet euphoria  
Sky bound hands my faith I've misplaced
Heave my sorrow from this place of worship
Let not my surrender go to waste
Biplav Shrestha Oct 2018
Falling raindrops
The waves wash away your memories
Only to reappear as echoes  
During sleepless nights
Your silhouette seems so distant
And yet so close I can almost taste it  
Maybe again
One day
You'll come haunt me
Thursday evenings
Under grey skies
For I feel like I've known you many lives
And not at all
Biplav Shrestha Dec 2015
It's not every day that you get the inspiration to write something. And when I say "write", I mean"write" in general.  In my case,I experienced a coffee rush for the first time today after what seems like forever and for some reason it has lasted for almost 5 hours. Anyway, TobyKid tells me that many great writers are in agreement that you can't (want) to write! That you have to (need) to write and if you don’t need to write then you shouldn’t write.I am someone who has always found it hard to socialize with people. As a kid I was usually the one who didn’t fit in anywhere. And for reason unclear, I didn’t want to fit in anywhere. So that was fine and I never felt sorry for myself. I was the type of kid that usually sat somewhere in the middle of the class,doodling and scribbling on the backs of notebooks and wooden desks. If it weren't for the dress code, I think I’d probably have shown up wearing a hoodie that covered up my entire body. If I were an insect, I'd probably be a soil dwelling worm. You can put money on that! Call me a hipster for liking Linkin Park and The Weeknd before they were cool! It wasn't long before I found out that keeping things to myself had consequences. The symptoms of which included paranoia, insomnia, depression, OCD, (ODD) obsessive day dreaming, blah!! This is when I discovered art, poetry and literature. I never understood why people worshiped musicians like they were gods till I heard Trent and Maynard for the first time. Well! Now I know. For a while I could turn off the world around me and get lost in the euphoria of my self-isolation. Sometime it lasted for a minute, sometimes for days. Like it matters anyway! Contrary to what culture and society perceives as normal behavior here, I have been writing and sketching my feelings down ever since I had the motor skills to move a pencil across paper; though I must admit that I'm still crap at it. But none of that really matters to me because it's probably the only thing keeping me sane and functioning in what I would otherwise perceive to be a meaningless and mundane world.I have always found it hard to find inspiration. That being said, there's nothing poetic about the thoughts that nest themselves inside my head. Although I have met quite a few people who likes to think otherwise. I don’t share any of them verbally as I think that they're so muddled up that I myself lack the skill and knowledge to decipher them. Instead, I write them down as I am writing this very commentary to try to get a sense of what it is that I am getting out of this coffee rush. I am still unclear of it but as long as I'm having fun hitting away at the keys with all that jazz, it's okay. Now I know what Victor Frankenstein was feeling while he was digging up all those graves to create his.. Adam.There is no easy way to put it. Everything you see me do is an act. Or is it? I can’t really tell anymore. Does a worm know that it’s a worm? I remember reading something by Stephen King where he was talking to a bunch of kids in a college and he talked about how he didn’t know what would happen to his characters and his stories until they were written. He also talked about how writing the last words of your novel before you've written it is like licking the icing off of the cake and then eating it.But then again, he's a genius and I am just some ******* trying to make sense of my life off of a coffee rush.(8/21/2015)
Biplav Shrestha Oct 2015
There is a frost around my elation
The celebrations and the laughter all around me
Seem distant through the glass of my window
The hollow figures follow me into the night
Serenading me with lights that hurts my eyes
The rise and fall of these days all feel the same
The name of the game is to blame the one who sings
Of things that make sense to the ones who listens
With precision to the words and sights
Of the things they write into meanings and metaphors
That open new doors to absolute trivialities of reality.
Biplav Shrestha Oct 2015
I had a dream once
Or maybe it was a memory
Half-awake into my sleep,
A step away from oblivion
Two from euphoria
Standing on the edge
Feeling the cold wind
Brush away the dirt off my bare feet
The branches reach out
To the sunlight that will never come
The silent dominion of the shadows
Run far and wide into the night
I met myself there
Or maybe someone else
Among the field of thorns and decaying wood
We felt at home we never knew we had
I don’t write anymore
At least not for myself
The sound of thunder in the distance
Reminds me of the approaching storm
As the black veil of reality rids me of my former self
Let the rain spill where they may
I had a dream once
Or maybe just a forgotten memory
Biplav Shrestha Aug 2014
People spending 6 hours of every day working out at gyms, approaching the aesthetic conditions of gods and goddesses while their minds starve and their senses withers! After a point, the body becomes a mask; some sort of distraction, a box that hides away the fleeting nothingness within. Balance is a poor man’s luxury and a rich man’s trash. Finding a middle ground is a rarity. A gem among the ashes.

Beautiful minds decaying within the confines of a heart that has taken it captive; being driven solely by the lust of the flesh. Forever bound to walk in meaningless exile; blindly running towards the horizon of the mediocre and the mundane. Love is a festering orb of false promises and preset expectations.

Flawed the concept of beauty; adulterated it's design. But what was once pure cannot maintain it's purity forever. It is but the mind that must adjust it's trajectory if it is to save it from itself. Perfection is just another word for a slow masochistic approach towards touching the unobtainable.
Biplav Shrestha Mar 2016
I look for love at all the wrong places
Like at the mosh pit at a metal gig
Or at an empty art gallery at 2 in the afternoon
Like a bee hovering over a Venus fly trap
I look for love at all the wrong places
I search for friends at the loneliest of places
Like a solitary recluse in the densest of mazes
With a hungry appetite for even the slightest of gazes
I search for friends at the loneliest of places
I seek music at the quietest of places
Leaning firmly against hollow boxes
Slow my breath as I flip through the pages
Like a clock without an hour hand
I seek music at the quietest of places
.

— The End —