Till that time

When
No space left inside the mind
They keep on collecting
What touches the life
Close enough

Till the threshold
When words can’t resist
And finds peace in Ink
And words start to embed
And the thoughts get its way
And the soul feels calm

When
Everything, Everybody
Nothing, Nobody
Sense like a word
Which gets pass through
The Ink

And once started

They find
A good reason
Not to stop
Or forget
How to stop.

If I am asked, what is the best topic to write?

I will always reply,  
THE SILENCE

Vane glorious and absolutistic,
     though I defiantly,
     cavalierly, and blithely attest
Yukon bet your (laugh-in) sweet bippy
     mine acidic breast

houses anarchic, anti-poetic ballistic,
     barbaric, and bubonic
     cannibalistic demons within thy
     safely guarded Pandora chest
atomic cesium clock

     timed to trigger avast
     burst of anxiety, frenzy, and
     (What me worry
     Alfred E. Neuman) blast
ting mental quietude at most
     inappropriate, inconvenient,

     inopportune, out classed
adrenaline rush, nausea,
     palpitating heart, vertigo
besieging, corrupting,
     endeavoring fractured arrant

cleft daemonic gripping
     hellishly psychic chant
rendering unto sieze ****,
     a choking vise grip extant
yule hiss sieze indomitable

     banshee fully controlling grant
diabolic, dogmatic, and dynamic,
     anguished corporeal ache
easily, egregiously, and emblematically,
     exemplified historically

     graphic fatalistic, and ecstatic coup,
     (koo), when I caused furious frantic flight,
     and/or fight betake
king angst causing just desserts
     for Marie Antoinette,

     who got her humble pie cake,
thence dispensing with formalities,
     where a joshing drake
     (named Gill O. Teen)

also known (solely known
     to mine selfish source error ways)
alias i.e. as; the Lewis (loose)
     lunatic, heady harvester,
     and decapitation Deacon trumpeting,

     trouncing, and triumphing tranquility
     for fifty three Tuesdays,
thence sea king punishing psychotic
     pre pound payment
     basking in glory (re: gory us)

     amidship crashing quays
music to mine ears hearing plaintive neighs
high pitched straining
     vocal chord hamstrung keys
regaling oceanographic
     lambent hagiographic essays
and keeping at bathos bays.

The feels that rise within my mind
sometimes I keep them packed inside.
but now I sit and here I write
to vent them free, in this twilight.
Some call me rude and some say shy.
Yes, that's the truth, I hereby lie.
I am no hermit, don't be mistaken
for I am uncouth and slightly shaken.
The profused silence, it is divine
like dots to connect, in bedlam of mine.
Only in tranquility and peace of mind
is when I fathom world's great design.
The more I speak, the less I know
The less I speak, oh, there you go.
I am no different, just as different
as floating lava, amidst the snow.
These words, these thoughts.
They freeze, they burn.
It's like a grand storm
trapped inside an urn.
This quietude is my escape from life
this serene silence I have devised.
This solitude exposed me to the placid side,
that never had I known, until my demise.
But now I sit and here I write,
to vent these words under this moon.
I often lose myself in this
and seldom find myself here too.
A.S.