life is like a well-compressed gunpowder

one match is enough, bang, immediate effect,  blows everything up
you give it space, you leave too much room
you will not see a spark,

likewise, when the man suffers the spirit is constrained
to wake up
explode, strive
ready to hear when the person moans, whimpers at night

in pain, the spirit rejoices in its own language
and why he wouldn't enjoy
when there is enough work to do for the next hundred years
to dig up the springs
raise the stars (like night)
or like the wind
to sway the waves of the sea to the shore

I've seen and heard,
enjoyed and purred
at the stories of old,
the silence of mold.

I've folded and weaved,
gently miscleaved,
broken and barren,
answered to Charon.

My bed is too small
and my rope's a bit tight.
I bring justice for all,
even just for one night.

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This poem is self translated version of my Hindi language poem titled "कविता" published in  bharat-darshan  ( Sep. -Oct., 2018 )
Can be read through the link ==>> https://bit.ly/2nRwOB9
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Poetry is the outflow of someone's heart
For someone, it's only black fever
For some, it's only a form of business
For someone, this is only seasonal fever

It's just an entertainment for someone
For someone it's like a toothpaste
A good instrument use to giggle
Listening it makes their teeth brighter

To show off the that stunning brightness
They spread crooked and mysterious smiles
Show of their shining-sparkling teeth
Then they lash out their greedy tongue

Poetry is an old newspaper for someone
It’s a mound of waste and unusable junk items
Poetry is just an advertisement for someone
Only an excellent medium to sell their goods

Poem is dark black alphabets for some
Only equivalent to a big fat black buffalo
From which it is impossible to get milk
But it's easy to get hurt by it's horns

Poem is a deep sympathy for some
For some its acute pain of the heart
Aroused from the core of their heart
It's someone's love for someone else

Poem is overflowing care for someone
It is swirling cloudy dust over someone
Poem is just a time-pass for someone
For someone it is complete nonsense

Poetry is effrontery in someone's pride
For someone it's amnesty for all
For some it's Saafi by Hamdard^
Which purifies and cleans the blood well

Poetry is a meditation for someone
For someone it’s a form of worship
Poetry is name of someone's beloved daughter^^
Poem is the name of someone's beautiful wife^^

Poem is means of livelihood for someone
It happen to be the basis of his life
For someone it is simply a big loan
Which is much difficult to repay in time

Poem is a tribute to the heroes
It a wreath to the brave martyrs
It's a collection of songs for musicians
It's prayer of devotees with folded hands

Sometimes poetry makes us happy
Sometimes it causes us to weep
It often caresses readers with love
Sometimes it even consoles them

Poetry sometimes make us laugh
Sometimes it forces to think
At times it reveals the flaws beneath
By removing the outer cover shell

Poetry sometimes surprises us too much
Sometimes misleads to pseudo-intellectualism
Sometimes it poses a challenge before us
Sometimes it emerges as a song from the soul

Sometimes it portrays the beauty of actress
It tends to dissolves sweet juice in the ears
And sometimes it pours molten lead in it
In such situation it pushes back all courtesy

Sometimes it transforms rulers into heroes
And sometimes it makes a politicians zero
Sometimes it becomes the words of panegyrist
Then it behaves like a butter ball for them

Poetry sometimes honours someone
Sometimes it even trick so many of us
Poetry even makes fun of somebody
Sometimes it entertains someone's heart

By the way, poetry is a blunt weapon
But it's has a different hitting power
Which is the real inner power of poet
It's also his covering blanket and strength

Only poetry gives him the required courage
It completely protects his existence
It always teaches him the lesson to -
Keep on fighting against the gunpowder

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^ Saafi - A Unani Medicine made by a company named Hamdard, used to clean or purify the blood

^^ Name of .....  - Kavita (translation of the word Poem in hindi) is a common name given to females in India.
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I hate what I'm writing
what if my brain is ******* me over
what if finally it's learnt from the others and packed it'd bags on me
what if my brain joins with the forces much greater than us
that I talk about
and together they plot their treason.
My thoughts are loaded gunpowder and my body
comprised of brick and cement
is the parliament building.
Maybe this poem is me
catching the rebels redhanded.
Maybe it's too late.
What if this is it,
the demise of my inner government,
the seats given to the opposition,
the monarchy going up in flames
(it certainly feels like burning)
I beg,
have me hung drawn and quartered
and feed my limbs to the birds.
And then,
from deep within the innards of a birds *****,
my last request is to
at the very least
make my severed head look pretty

Your tongue must taste worse than gunpowder
Bitter and cold
Because of the words you speak
Bloodied and vengeful
Against everyone, including yourself
Hate, dark as fresh coffee
You live in a house that’s burning
Slowly to the ground
Your hostility, slicing those trying to save you.
My lips sizzle against your lonely ones
And my palms ripped, bleeding, from grabbing yours
I am the earth
That smothers your ignited hatred

her kiss sparks fire,
the gunpowder in him flares;
triggers quick fireworks.

Once upon a time
Lived a boy drenched in reason and rhyme
He culled the fields
A plow he yields
With a smile as soft as soil

But he heard the call to better things
away to rocks and stones that sing
Buried down in dirt and dust
Yields a bite of metal's rust
A smile as sharp as flint

The hand of death touched his soil
But through that barrage he twisted and toiled
But as he pleaded an escape from the grip of black
He knew that it would pull him back
And a set as solid as stone

Back to farm and yield he traveled
To see he life had unraveled
His green fields of corn and roan
Was all dark, and filled with stone
The green boy shadow stained

The boy had twisted and shouted
That the shadow of death should let him out
But in his haste to escape
He forgot the trace of blood and the deeper scrape
That was gunpowder and blood

He forgot to ask
He forgot the tasks
That had given him a soil smile
And in that lost guile
He forgot to ask the hand that gripped him
To wash itself of the shadow
Of blood and gunpowder