Zindagi me kai ese moke aaenge jab tum apne apko 1 ajib kashmo kash me paoge,
Kai viparit paristhityo ka dar tumhe sataega,
Kya galat hai kya sahi tumhe kuch smjh nahi aaega,

Ye kuch uljhne hai jo har kisi ki Zindagi me alg alg samay pr aati hai
Jo ki us waqt pr bhut soch smjhkr kuch faislo se suljhai jati hai

Par kya wo faisle lena itna aasan hota hai?

Kyu ki wo 1 faisla shyd puri zindagi ko bdl skta hai

Har faisle me Kuch panne ki tammana, to kuch khone ka dar to hoga
Par un sab raaho me se kisi 1 ko tumhe chunna hoga,

Us raah ko chunne ke liye tum Hazaro logo se ray mashwara karte **
Kai baar apne dil ki chod, gairo ki baat par bh yakin karte **

Par smjho is baat ko, ki Hazaro se sunkr bhi tumhara dil kis chiz ko chahta hai
Dhundho, Kya hai wo esa jisko tumhara man puri mehnat, lagan aur jazbato k sath karna chahta hai.

Kyu ki Sahi to sab kuch hai is duniya me
Par tumhare liye kya sahi hai ye tumhi jaan skte **
Apne andar ki kabiliyat ko pehchankar, Mehnat kar
apne sapno ko haqueeqat bana skte ** !!

That hideous
brownish
smoke.
Oh it makes me
choke to think
of it sinking
into your lungs

Never he was an honest man
Who prides himself
On wanton expeditions

In a field of truth
He lies, entangled in conceit
To win that which he desires –
It is only but a game.

Mind not his mental means, nor manner –
Be he sane or psychopath –
But the strategy by which he plays:
Cheat, deceive, manipulate,
Overcome, and conquer your carnal estate.

Twisted tales, spun with golden thread
Crafted by careful practice and confidence
The master of charisma in his own head
Is no Eros, in any sense – Erosive, yes –
He is only what you want but for a brief moment
Be suspicious and expect this ever-real Narcissus.

A lecher he is
A Greek God in wish –
Nay, he only lives in the fantastic,
Though he roams about us
In a surreal bubble,
Where love comes to pass,
He is ever-so subtle

He markets himself as a Rembrandt,
Although more a moke* than baroque,
Something which he could never see
Staring into his reflection so blindly.
At a cost, worth more than his fee,
This cheap knockoff of Sal Dali,
Would sell you his love
For a buck forty-three.

Beware the lecher.