At times he’ll give blood and at times he’ll hide his identity behind the ink of his pen,
He’ll revolt but in a silent way, a path not taken by many men.
The pursuit of truth is his aim and to tear off the mask of injustice is his dream,
But his words sometime fall on deaf ears, no matter how much they scream.
The anger of the cane marks on his skin are let out by the words he writes on a page,
And the neglect for his words that don’t bring about change is what puts him in a blind rage.
But he took the noble way, for he picked up a pen and not a sword,
He’s a rare kind, for he still believes in and fears his lord.
He owes nothing, nothing but the truth that flows within his ink,
A truth he’s expected to hold onto and tell until his eyes can see them and can blink.
The heat of truth burns his hand but with a smile on his lips this pain he can take,
For the hope gives him strength, hope of the change that his words will make.
He roams around looking for a way to bring about a change in the society that lies each day,
A way to make his words find the culprit and to make him pay.
And so he braves the harsh conditions, the people, and fights the systems plan,
For he’s a writer and a member of humanity but he’s no country’s man.

THE LIFE AND DEATH OF A COMMON MAN-

His face is unknown, his voice is unheard and his walk does not leave footprints in the past,
He does not stand out, he’s one among millions and no one knows how many years does he last.
His problems are petty and often overlooked when compared to important matters at hand,
For he is considered a vagabond in debt who roams on our country’s land.
He votes, pays taxes and abides by the rules but he knows it’s all in vain,
For helpless he surely is and he knows he can turn to no one to ease his pain.
Every four years he hopes of change in the system that neglects him,
But he’s unaware he’s already a part of a system that considers him at the brim.
Nine to five and six days a week is his job and he eagerly waits for Sunday to rest,
Contribute to society a little each day to progress is what he does best.
Strength in numbers is a truth he knows but unity is absent in times to revolt against the law,
He knows it’s not his companions fault but a basic human thinking’s flaw.
There will be a day when he will have the power to change but it’s a distant dream,
For today he is captured in a glass bowl and no one but himself can hear his own screams.
So he walks everyday supporting the system that doesn’t consider him a part of the plan,
A system that never did care for the life nor the death of this faceless, nameless common man.

O a perfume of invite kissed her skin!
Vigorously invoking a need for his touch,
Parched tongue now flowed over her naked self,
Circling her navel, tussling with her braided hair.
Torn hems of fabrics gashed her,
To only ooze a teasing drop of red,
Which so selflessly satisfied his ravishing thirst.
In tandem with the waves of her hair,
Did his moans waver and shimmy,
To only tinge and fire with virile.
A silence slowly arrived with the dawn,
Witnessing a wilderness around the mute sheets,
While the night portrayed a naughty smile.

"There is no greater satisfaction for a romantic than to know that he will always be alive in unspoken words."** -Kishan Ballurkar