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K 2d
Blue are my organs,
Blue is my blood,
Blue are my eyes,
Like a flood,
Of rainwater,
Rushing through the gutter of my soul.
K 2d
Voices all day seem to criticize like buzzing flies,
like tyrants with their wooden Fists,
and raging impulses.
they say -
stupid **** loser -
bad, horrid

and I wonder why,
why are they saying these things?
behind closed doors and in crowded hallways,
behind the fence crouched and quiet-
I am nothing to them
I'm scared of them and I wish that they were gone...
I am just nothing
K 2d
Isn't it funny,
How we use staples for paper,
To save for later,
To organize our thoughts,
In funny colors,
For each other.
Isn't it funny,
They stapled your head,
With similar staples,
Shiny and red.
You tipped your hat to the employee at the entrance,
She screamed,
And we laughed,
Our one and only defense.
K 2d
Cig
Cig.
Hit my throat like a boxer,
Smoke my lungs out,
Then open my mouth like a skunky VW bus-
Pick my brain up,
Light up.
Swirl up into the sky,
Adamant you're worth it to die.
K 2d
Who's in the mirror-
Staring back with wide eyes,
Green and glowing,
Magnifyed,
By the question-
Who's looking back?
You can't be real,
You're scaring me -
Like a daisy sprung full bloom in the dead of winter,
Like a tiny needle,
A splinter.
You are fear and you ate my confidence for breakfast.
I'm almost sure you won't break through and take the rest.
Tic-tac-toe
three in a row,
he swings hard,
alarm bells go,
a knife and knife
a circular ring
who's got the guts
to come clean?

Slurry of blows,
slurry of speech,
maybe there's more
to being a leech,
a man made of pride
a man made of sorrow
what's a man to do
when he can no longer borrow?
Time for some rhymes. What happens when you're stuck in a situation that forces you to get in even more trouble?
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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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My thoughts on what a Poetry is......
K 7d
DR
Breathe a breathy, "How have you been doing," in your white coat, Dr.
And cast blank but not wholly unconcerned glances my way.
Press cold against my chest, ask me to breathe.
Coax my blood forth-
I can't watch it fill,
fill,
fill.
K 7d
Pink hair and big doe eyes,
plastic clothes and purses.
Do this, do that,
argue with me.
Show me the beginnings,
of my Insanity.
Play as girl, play as boy, get married and kiss.
Fly across the world.
Hold me in your hands like an angel could, if I ever believed in those things,
if I ever would.
Take me to the prisoner,
fill me up with shame,
tarnish memories with rust,
set a doll's eyes aflame.
But no!
It was pink,
like buttercream,
it was sickly sweet.
I am nothing if not human,
nothing if not bone and meat.
Hold me like a child,
like the painting on the wall.
An angel pure and simple,
gasping at it all.
The other is smoking,
trails of gray-blue,
the disastrous danger that is me,
shining right through.
K 7d
Isn't it barbaric,
the things we've done and said?
And the way we tuck them neatly,
like cattle,
to the backs of our heads?
Isn't it barbaric,
the way I treat myself?
As though I am a stranger,
or a doll left on a shelf.
Isn't it barbaric,
the way you look at me?
So sweetly,
like you'd hold me,
for all eternity.
And isn't it barbaric,
the way that death takes life?
As though it had meant nothing,
even wrought with strife.
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