Before you criticize me too soon, I think you should spare some seconds and answer a simple question to yourself...

If Shahjahan loved Mumtaz Mahal so much, why he had a harem of wives to use at his own pleasure?

While I agree that the Taj Mahal is arguably the most extraordinarily beautiful monument in the world, I don't agree upon the fact that it was built as a tomb of love. It is just a symbol of madness if you asked me. An emperor's insecure feeling to get his name registered in the history books. While it may be one of the most beautiful architectural monument, it was built by over 20,000 architects, craftsmen, masons and engineers who took over 16 years to build the magnificent building.

He got this apparently high & prestigious monument of love built but everything that the Emperor did was not pleasant at all.

° The lavishly living Mughal Emperor spent all his - his subjects' money into building this monument of love instead of keeping his subjects well-fed.
° Mumtaz Mahal might have been the luckiest woman to have died and got such a marvelous building built as her mausoleum but she died giving birth to her & Shahjahan's 17th offspring and then Shahjahan who had uncountable other wives was inspired by her demise apparently to undertake what is termed as the biggest project in history build the costliest monument proclaiming his rule.
° The arrogant - falsely proud lover - Mughal emperor didn't know that what he thought to be looked at as the greatest symbol of love will be criticized by some poet in his own land nearly 375 years later. The insane Mughal Emperor got all the builders of the Taj Mahal's fingers cut-off of so that there could be no other Taj Mahal.

But Aurangzeb, his & Mumtaz Mahal's son overthrew his power when Shahjahan got older and locked him up in a jail at the other end of Yamuna river where the emperor then died a sad old lovelorn bedlamite person in prison. Aurangzeb was the exact opposite of his dad, he showed religious intolerance and his habits drove the empire towards its doom after his death.

But let me think this way; when I look at any picture of the Taj Mahal, what I get the first thing in mind is this: *Such a CRAZY emperor who got such a beautiful monument of Egotism built!

If Fate should seal my Death to-morrow,
  (Though much I hope she will postpone it,)
I’ve held a share Joy and Sorrow,
  Enough for Ten; and here I own it.

I’ve lived, as many others live,
And yet, I think, with more enjoyment;
For could I through my days again live,
I’d pass them in the ’same’ employment.

That ‘is’ to say, with ’some exception’,
For though I will not make confession,
I’ve seen too much of man’s deception
Ever again to trust profession.

Some sage ‘Mammas’ with gesture haughty,
Pronounce me quite a youthful Sinner—
But ‘Daughters’ say, “although he’s naughty,
You must not check a ‘Young Beginner’!”

I’ve loved, and many damsels know it—
But whom I don’t intend to mention,
As ‘certain stanzas’ also show it,
‘Some’ say ‘deserving Reprehension’.

Some ancient Dames, of virtue fiery,
(Unless Report does much belie them,)
Have lately made a sharp Enquiry,
And much it ‘grieves’ me to ‘deny’ them.

Two whom I lov’d had ‘eyes’ of ‘Blue’,
To which I hope you’ve no objection;
The ‘Rest’ had eyes of ‘darker Hue’—
Each Nymph, of course, was ‘all perfection’.

But here I’ll close my ‘chaste’ Description,
Nor say the deeds of animosity;
For ’silence’ is the best prescription,
To ‘physic’ idle curiosity.

Of ‘Friends’ I’ve known a ‘goodly Hundred’—
For finding ‘one’ in each acquaintance,
By ’some deceived’, by others plunder’d,
‘Friendship’, to me, was not ‘Repentance’.

At ‘School’ I thought like other ‘Children’;
Instead of ‘Brains’, a fine Ingredient,
‘Romance’, my ‘youthful Head bewildering’,
To ‘Sense’ had made me disobedient.

A victim, ‘nearly’ from affection,
To certain ‘very precious scheming’,
The still remaining recollection
Has ‘cured’ my ‘boyish soul’ of ‘Dreaming’.

By Heaven! I rather would forswear
The Earth, and all the joys reserved me,
Than dare again the ’specious Snare’,
From which ‘my Fate’ and ‘Heaven preserved’ me.

Still I possess some Friends who love me—
In each a much esteemed and true one;
The Wealth of Worlds shall never move me
To quit their Friendship, for a new one.

But Becher! you’re a ‘reverend pastor’,
Now take it in consideration,
Whether for penance I should fast, or
Pray for my ’sins’ in expiation.

I own myself the child of ‘Folly’,
But not so wicked as they make me—
I soon must die of melancholy,
If ‘Female’ smiles should e’er forsake me.

‘Philosophers’ have ‘never doubted’,
That ‘Ladies’ Lips’ were made for ‘kisses!’
For ‘Love!’ I could not live without it,
For such a ‘cursed’ place as ‘This is’.

Say, Becher, I shall be forgiven!
If you don’t warrant my salvation,
I must resign all ‘Hopes’ of ‘Heaven’!
For, ‘Faith’, I can’t withstand Temptation.


P.S.—These were written between one and two,
after ’midnight’. I have not ‘corrected’, or ‘revised’.
Yours, BYRON.

In egotism,
one is mocked by fear
assailed by his own rage
traumatized by it all his life...
he passes his life totally troubled..
by his own fear and rage...
till he is able to let go..

In a cosmopolitan world where
Yeezy reigns supreme on our
Speakers, loathed for loving
Genius-acknowledging, we

Have set a standard of beauty
So surreptitious, soulless—
Unattainable in this number-
Crunching world so pre-

Occupied with symmetry and
Egotism—structure—black and
White dominated by rawness and
Robotics: steampunk screams echo-
Ing from the rooftops of skyscrapers

As lightning continues to strike the highest point.

If you wanted privacy,
you might have closed your blinds from time to time.

The devil doesn't knock upon entry.
He knows where he's wanted.

I've heard your conversations--
The bigotry,
the loathing.

I've ****** up filth through your floorboards.

I've tasted your tears,
mingled with sweat
from sins of the flesh,
cascading down your drains.

I've stepped through the hillocks of cigarette butts
you discard as carelessly as your dreams,
a little measure to meld your
environment and outlook:
the world as an ashcan.

I know you better than I'd ever know myself
because my assessment of you is
not gilded with pride or egotism,
not tainted by self-pity.

I know that you wanted this,
in spite of pained cries to the contrary.
I know you really wept for the innocence
you lost long before I let myself in your *****.

You let the world in--
you offered yourself up with impunity for far too long.
You valued your life so little
as to put it on display for anyone's appraisal.

You were waiting on catastrophe
to prove you were worth saving;

I was merely the instrument.

I took nothing that wasn't proffered by your unlocked door.

Your home and your body share sentiments--
I simply took the welcome mat at its word.

J.
Ah, J.
A love I hath excitedly longed to find,
A love t'at previously had no name.
J.
A love too thrilling for my sights to feel,
and perhaps th' only love t'at couldst make me thrilled;
A love so genuine and benevolent,
A love so talented and intelligent.
Ah, J.
A love t'at just recently landed on my mind;
And made all my lyrical days far more splendid;
A love t'at briefed, and altered me more and more;
A love so chilly and important, with subt'leness like never before.
Ah, J.
My very, very own J.
Perhaps my future king, my precious, but at times villainous-darling.
Oh, J.
And perhaps I am just not as virtuous as I might be,
But t'is poem shall still be about thee;
For thou art-within my minds, still awkwardly th' best one,
With a pair of oceanic eyes too dear; and a civil charm so fine.
J.
J, o my love.
If only thou knew-how oceans sparkles within thy eyes,
And 'tis only in thy eyes, t'at any of t'ese complications might not become eerie,
And then t'is destiny is true, as well as how truth is our destiny;
So t'at any precarious delicacy is still faint-perhaps, but not a lie.
Oh, J.
A bubble of excitement t'at my heart feelest;
But if consented not, shall be the wound no blood couldst heal;
Ah, J, if the heavens' rainbow wert fallen, t'an thou'd be purer;
Born as a sin as us all humans, thou art cleaner to my heart still, and canst but love me much better.
Ah, J.
If only thou knew-how madness floweth and barketh and drinketh from our spheres,
But even th' devil cannot spill its curse on our strangled love;
At least until everything is deaf-and we duly cannot hear,
As skies descend onto th' sore earth; and our dumb sins are t' be sent above.

J.
How pivotal thou art to me-if only yon foliage couldst understand;
If only t'ose winds were not rivals, but one-or at least wanted to be friends.
Ah, J, even only thy words filled my comical ******* to th' brim;
And as far as heavens' angels canst hear, I am no more in love with him.
Ah, J.
'Tis cause my verses are seeking thy name, and his not;
I may create th' words, but thou deviseth my plots;
Ah, and him, the bulk of egotism, and whose frank misery;
Are but too disastrous to me, and in possession of too much agony.
Oh, J.
Thus thou art th' only one who remaineth solemn;
Th' one to remain ecstatic, and as less aggressive as calmness;
But of the broad thoughts I used to think of him, I feel shame;
He is just some unborn trepidation at night-though on fine mornings, he is tame.
Ah, J.
Let me disclose th' egress of thy journey, and tellest me now-is which towards mine?
Ah, thee, thou who art so bounty, and deliciously fine;
And t'ese thoughts of thee-are often tasty, and oft'times generous;
'Ven when thou'rt mad, and thy chanting is vigorously serious.
Ah, J.
Thee, a soul of painless blood;
Whose disgrace hath been buried;
Whose vanities hath been laid off;
Whose miracles hath been lavished on.
Ah, J.
Thou art one bright portrayal of my merit;
I fell'n love with thee in a single bit.
Thou bore my tears, and scorned away my guilt;
And in th' swaying summertime, thou wert my protective shield.
Thus my, my very own J.
My gale-like, and unutterably luscious poem;
About whom my thoughts are jolly, but mindful and insensible;
Ah, J, I wish I were more frail, paler, and gullible;
Ah, but if only being so couldst make me more compatible.
Oh, J.
And compatible, compatible with thee alone;
Fleshly be thine whenst all is borne on thy own;
Be thy only trusted companion, and thy eloquently verified wife;
Be thine, and thine in wifery only, throughout and for th' rest of thy life.
J.
All Let me then guess but the tranquility of thy thoughts-hath thou gone mad?
Behind us are rainbows, and thus thy songs should not be sad;
But even though they were sad, I wouldst lend thee my heart;
So t'at no summer sunshine couldst further tear us apart.
J.
Ah, J, why are th' blue skies far too impatient in thy eyes?
Just as how thy deep scent is febrile in my air;
Thy gushes of breath are thick in my young weather;
As buoyant as yon summer itself; as voluptuous as lingering daisies.
J.
And t'is ****** scream, within my heart, needs indeed-t' be fulfilled;
And its vulnerability t'ere always, to be killed;
Ah, J, t'ere is 'finitely no poem as beautiful as thee;
T'ere is no writing yet as such, as trivial and distant-as my eyes canst see.
J.
Ah, J, darling, and my very fine darling; is chastity to thee virtuous?
About which my soul is hungered-and t'ereby curious;
But if 'tis so, I shall be merry-and ever meekly laborious;
I shall make it tender, and maketh it a reliant gift, to thee.
J.
Ah, J, and thou came to me one aft'rnoon, with a sweet muteness;
For to thee, poems are far more pivotal to a young poetess;
Yes, and far prettier t'an a beastly bunch of words;
Whose curse is whose sweetness itself-and whose whole sweetness is curse.
J.
Ah, J, so shall I be thy pure lady t'en?
For purity is a curse-and related not within t'ese walls;
Walls of discomfort-irresolute and at certain times foreign still;
Walls t'at shun us-and be ours not, due to t'eir own reserved castigations.
J.
Oh, querida, my random rainbow-but still my dearest querida;
My poetry in th' morning, and th' baffling flute, for my evening sonata;
And as it is sounded, I shall be thy private lonely prelude;
But th' one who maketh thee singular, and nevertheless, handsomely proud.
Ah, J.
And thy perfect red lips are th' stillettos of the sun;
Critical but radiant-all too agonising in t'eir inevitable shape;
So t'at kissing might be just too much fun;
And from which, o my love, t'ere is no such a famous escape.

J.
Ah, J, thou knoweth not-I am asleep only within thy remembrance;
As how I am awake only in thy life, and partake of my justice, in thy glory.
Ah, J, but if satire were the only choice we had, shalt thou be with me?
Ah, my J, for be it so-I shall never regret anything, I shall never say sorry.

J.
Ah, wherefore art thou now, my love? I am now cursed. My dreams are mad.
I am now crawling out of whose realms; I wanteth but'a stay no more in my bed.
Ah, J, but in my dream thou wert too miles and miles away, and indolently anonymous;
I hatest sleep t'ereof, for t'ey piercest me so tiringly, with a harm they deemest as humorous.

J.
Ah, sweet darling, and in our dreams, t'ere is no strain, nor piety;
Even thou-in th' last one, despised my pyramids-and my chaste poetry;
Ah, querida, I am but afraid our loneliness shall be gone 'fore long;
For its temporariness is not sick, and canst work its way along, with a belief so strong.

J.
Ah, love, but t'is loveliness itself-is indeed tyrannous,
And its frigid poetry is randomly perilous,
As how th' daydreams it bringeth forth-which are luminous,
But as love is innocent, by one second canst all turn perilous!
J.
Ah, J, thus our story is brilliant, and in any volume real' magnificent,
With curves palatable, but with some greyness too fair-and too pleasant!
Ah, J, if passion dost exist, and thus maketh it all real;
And at once I shall understand thee; and listen only, to how we both feelest.

Ah, J.
My very, very own little J.
My dearest J.
The harbour of my ultimate love.
My most cordial, and serene spring of affection.
My most veritable nirvana, my vivid curiosity-and shades of frankness.
My dream at heart, and my sustainable ferocious haste.
Th' love in which my ever fear shall subside,
And be overwhelmed by its unfearing light.
J.
Oh, J, my glossy, exuberant darling.
And as more winds sway, and amongst the green grass outside,
I canst but feel thy eyes here watching;
Thy eyes t'at widely grinneth, and flirtest with my poetry itself;
Thy eyes t'at forever invitest, yet are all more daring than myself;
Ah, J, even though t'is love may be a secret scene,
But I hath felt, even vulnerably, not any provoking passion so keen-
For though they couldst my flowed veins hear,
They were still delicately unseen-with a serenity t'at was ne'er here.

he used to say he was speaking for an entire people
probably he meant that he understood the sheer veil of
not possessing the Owner yet cursing closed veins
and i can cut Narcissus' marron curls twice think about listing emotions regularly
unafraid some blood refuses to flow my way i feel deficient

behind the sheer-blue veils of eyes
and the water/the waves there is nothing more
than an unpoet
a piece of work
very much instead
a fool also
behind Narcissus is the unbending floor
i can see some gushing grey pieces of completely undusted power

his hands do not interfere with heated temperatures
when Narcissus touches my red-left-ear
without asking the rest of his body remaining same
steady
not even refreshing/refreshed anymore

he again and again clasps his shell hands around
my shoulders some sort of hug and i
freeze yet dissolve i am a watered down paradox
i do not know how to behave
i wish another Nemesis would clasp me that she
would put me into a bathtub my natural
habitat is water anyways
they are Rex and Regina and
i love how her hair remains darker, shorter
even after i cut his curls it does not matter what i do
they are powerful

meanwhile i am in the clouds all
blue all by myself i blurred my vision for
mountains of misunderstandings
those are my trophies i float and
scratch the tips of my fingers on all
the glowing god
awful drama i am a naked goddess the clouds
take me away
they shield me from lightning but not from darkness
i find myself fixated on the dark side of the moon for
scraps of paper it lulls for
individual letters it spits out
i wish i could stop being eighteen or nineteen or
twenty or twenty-two why do numbers come
for me algebra was never my forte i count
and count but my feelings never add up

and i finally feel grounded
into dirt Lupin closest to me our legs
line up without lights always
a little more wild
animal-like and
he kisses my back right where
i chose the moon to reside still it does not
phase me it does not change my desire
to dissect the muscles in his arms
leave the ones in his skull alone
doubt his feelings for me and my feelings for him and my feelings for me i lost my path and Lupin remains
third chasing me down dark chasms
consciously or pinned down we're always in bed
all of us pinned down by the heat by my pillows by the
lines on my neck
Lupin, i love it when you pin me down but you do not
keep me awake when
i've retreated into my bathtub

last blood moon made me bleed i am an
open wound still i am ******* holy/wholly
when you are conquered by me you will
scream for mercy

on middle grounds i shake the veils
around my waist that ground me minimally
i shake and shack them wishing to glue eyes next to
the garnets that garnish my see-
through dress i assess my desires again
i do not know about mildness i want
every star in the milky room every level in the crossed-out
game i want materials rough i want materially everyone on my list

you will never see through me even when
i open my chest there will be vaults of veils
Salome counted only seven but she was
a woman in the first century after men ****** up i
am intellectually miles ahead of her
i have sewn miles of veils together
a silky harness i shield myself with

my egotism is rising on a mountain of misunderstandings
in the milky room they all revolve around me my planets,
my moons crystal clear
my comets and you are dark energy Possessing me
everywhere yet persisting unveiled/unknown
not even your existence can be proven and i do not
ever want to see you/not see you
you are completely parallel to me

and i know my river sweetness is not over
me when he paints me i see his own
****** features through holes in my
face it pains me
how he still wishes we could
come together how he wouldn't
fall so far behind

you will never see through me
i twist the truth to be a diluted version of your thoughts which
i have read and despised i despise tongues and *****
still i dwell in wetness was this what i wanted to reach?
do i know? why do my eyes itch and i scratch until i bleed
never let it heal i want to be in pain

why do my eyes itch whenever i eat anything
itty bitty spicy risqué
why do i cry over four flights of stairs,
four flocks of friends,
four flights back home,
and the exit is wide wide open