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Priyam Aug 2012
It is an absent space.

A contradiction.

Paper flowers with glassy countenance

Are peeling away on the mirrors of the sky.

Your silence becomes mine in this city.

Can you feel without that crutch

That you have called poetry?

Bleed unto me.

Your words can heal your wounds.

And we shall find life again,

Painting stars in this empty sky

Where the paper flowers are crying out

For a lost home.
Priyam Apr 2011
Have they killed the light in your soul?

Do you watch the black roses scream?

Do we live now in a blackhole?

Do we hope? Do we dream?

The meteors of our faith have burnt,

The silver lake of truth is hollow.

Tell me how many curses I have earned,

Give me the star that you all follow.



Make my ears deaf, my eyes bleed,

Hide me from the colours of doubt!

These sounds of blood I don’t need!

Give me away! Bring me out!



Slowly we must all lose our minds!

Paranoia is a pandemic disease.

Yes black roses come in all kinds,

Tie them on your hands and knees!



Put up my dreams on a weekend sale.

I’ll hide in the masks made of mud.

Blank pages and spiders look so pale,

Turn down the screaming sounds of blood!



Jon Foreman, burn down bridging fates!

Sisyphus give me your ****** stone!

Down the road we’ll find the crates,

In the sky the stones have cried alone.



Shadows painted in the sound of blood,

Blind me with the colours of doubts!

Empty tin drums grace the mud,

Give me away, bring me out!
Priyam Jul 2010
Stand still,
And stay quiet if you will.
Upon the scene that I shall paint,
softly now tread;
Upon the roads that divide,
Are crusts of dreams ahead.

Rising to the bright moonlit skies,
Do you see your innocent lies?
Lies keep you sane, keep you sound,
That keep your kites flying
Whilst you smile on the ground?

Do you see the veiled broken hearts
Beneath the pretence and the guiles?
Their fake glee, the fake smiles?
In the silver sea of the stars,
Do you see the hope that spreads to miles?

So stand still,
And stay quiet if you will,
Behold the beauteous silver skies,
And then tread softly on the light beams;
For they are your own innocent lies,
Your own sea of stars,
Your own little dreams..
Priyam Jan 2010
Cramped in minds which know little,
Dreamt by ones without destiny.
It is a trade of illusions and lost dreams
Of snow melting in the greens,
And realities thriving in unreal scenes.
A loser's trade and yet a drug!
A fool's verse it be though,
Coslier than gold, dearer than blood!
Kept in thoughts beyond one's mind,
Scribbled by fools who are blind,
Blind to plights so much their own,
We call it pain, they call it home.
A fool's verse it remains,
That the ink stains to show,
That a trade of lost dreams it is;
A little beyond insanity to know.
Hitch your wagon to a fool's luck,
A moment of joy on the silverscreens,
Call it a loser's trade, a fool's drug,
Yet the saga of illusions and lost dreams..

— The End —