It is the place of ill’s mausoleum;
This book is really an imperium
Which teaches everyone decorum.
A true product of petroleum –
To fire out fallacy and presidium
And produces highest order decorum.
A place of mental gymnasium:
Highly creative, productive ***
Where ill shaded in mausoleum,
The place with lot of decorum,
Cannot be found in millennium.
It is the place of ill’s mausoleum.

The only book teaching humanism;
The only which cures locoism;
One and only poem for lyricism
Is Reader’s Digest’s mechanism.
If you see it through any prism
Can find joy, fun, thrill and sarcasm
This is a  weak agent of nihilism;
This is the best known idealism
Where all spend individualism
To receive mental masochism.
Reading it is just like mesmerism.
Without it school suffers gargoylism.
Indian tradition or let be Maoism,
It is well read and accepted optimism.

One of the resourceful books unbeatable;
Children’s love, care and comfort biddable
Is none better than Reader’s Digest – capable.
Articles, reports, jokes and anecdotes audible;
All are present in it; all are undoubtable.
Changing the mindset of students capable
Is a new, systematic thing coachable.
Changing the world and its cannibal
Into the virtues and values bindable.
Explaining itself if anytime culpable;
And so is famous for being countable.
Teachers, parents, students ennoble
Reader’s Digest for not being enfeeble.
Leaders or followers who are like a crucible
Change their minds and be bendable.
Behaviour and conduct – key undoubtable
Will keep you atop, elevated, lofty and able.

I could chew my way
through all the armless hugs,
through all the silences,
but an infestation of truth
tore away the mask
which allowed me to pursue
such a mindless task,
and now I can no longer
act so automatic,
no longer just a passenger
in my own mind,
I'm either indifferent or dramatic.
And now the entrace is closed
for what I detest,
you're a part of me and
I hope you don't mind,
but darling, your knives
were always the hardest to digest.

It's not me, it's not me, you see.
It's not me you're questioning.
It's not me who propels this
dark side of my psyche.

Anti hides behind my friend, Hope.
Anti hides behind my friend, Light.
Anti has resided in me for quite a while.
Anti hides behind every face-lighting smile.

Anti is not my happiness,
It's all the sides of me I'd rather not see,
All the sides that feel so right
when they speak of the
wrong things to me,
So real, so authentic.
Anti's not who I'm meant to become;
a contradiction manifesting
itself into my body.

Sometimes, I feel it take over me,
Sometimes I let it win.
That's usually when people
start to not recognize me,
That's usually when I feel
my kindness freeze,
I feel my impatience
and tolerance cease -
I can no longer digest
anything around me.

Love is when you can't control your fast beating heart
Your sweat from the stress
The amount of words you can't digest
And the physical excitement from your body.

Will you ever remember
The Spring times
We swallowed butterflies so often
Our stomachs refused to digest them
And the cold Winter days
The sun hid behind the clouds
And cried heavy rain
Utterly jealous of the heat
We made each other feel.

Will you ever remember
The early mornings
You swore
Your love was pure
And each time
You promised me eternity

Because this is not what I see
Nor is it what you want of me.


F.Z.N

Writing something when you're full
Makes you mix up lion with bull
When you stay off the kitchen
Your stomach feels some itching
Later maybe have some tea
Having too much makes you ***
Take some time to digest
This way you can say the best

It's funny how inhaling poison
can seem adequate enough
to fill up your time
and...
natural.

I do remember when your tongue
tasted like toothpaste and nicotine
and I ****** on it
as if trying to steal your pain away
and swallow it.
But all my stomach had to digest
was silent words
that I am still hungry for
and a desire
for you to stop hurting yourself
and me.

But all you do
is smoke one cigarette after the other
with such nonchalance.


F.Z.N