Chaos

What if man never came into existence?
Man, funnily enough, a synonym for humans,
And not the half of them.
What if man, again, never came into existence?
Existence, that demands to be proven.
Existence, that tests your threshold of tolerance.
Tolerance, another creature of mythical memory.
Memory that is a bubble waiting to be popped open
And deluge the unknown air of nascent nostalgia.
Nostalgia, an over-worked vagrant
That used to be a prince,
Until memory turned malignant,
And desires turned dark.
Dark, the reigning emperor
Of the gentles of night.
And night, the mysterious warrior,
That wins the lost war against truth.
Truth, that is everything but true.
Truth, as fickle as fame and flame are.
Truth, so misrepresented in its different chronicles,
Disguising lies as the absence of true reasoning.
Reasoning, that grows scant
In the irrationality of broken belief.
Belief, that existence should be worth it
And be not a solemn song
That placidly plays away to peace.
Peace, that is unknown, unheard of and unwilled
In all years that man, and woman, existed.

What if man, and woman, never came into existence?

Inside The Watcher's Mind

I am being watched,
Constantly.
And every decision I make
Is judged
By a mind so much more experienced
Than I could ever hope for my time.
I become conscious and
My forehead folds with every action,
And the watcher is always a step ahead,
As if he could rewind and play my past
And knows what my future is.

The watcher is me.

My future self, perhaps watching me
As I write this,
Adds the unwanted pressure to write good.
My future self, perhaps watching me,
As I eat and dwelve in lethargy,
Is cursing me for his ailments.
My future self blames me
For anything that goes awry,
Perhaps, I didn't do enough in my time.

I float in a bubble of memory
Inside the watcher's mind.
Scared for the bubble breaking open
And me flowing out, shrieking for help,
Help provided by the watcher me.
My rendezvous with what is yet to come
And I'm clueless, vacant on my speech,
Yet brimming with questions that I want answered,
And some better left unasked,
Wishing I could get him to stop the replays,
And implore him to stop watching
But I know I'm stubborn
And time could only have worsened that.

My shower turns drier with
The ascending scarcity of life's liquid.
And mind slithers back to normalcy,
Shower thoughts are a fancy world.

I, The Poet

I, the poet, can turn graphite
Into murals of history.
I, the poet, don't survive, but thrive.
And I, the poet, don't hide my word,
For my thoughts condense, and condense into
Ballets, by a quill, overt with the
Music of blue inkishness.
I, the poet, with the flows of my hand, reckon
To sweep the sand off the writing paper
And besmear it with golden dust.
Dust of my hidden past and gold of my art,
Gold of experience and dust of rampart.
I, the poet, can invent words,
Like I just invented inkishness.
I, the poet, have liberty,
To conjure spellings out of thin air,
Air that is thinner than the bottleneck
Of our filters of social acceptance.
I, the poet, can cleave expressions
To make my rhyme.
I, the poet, can single-handedly
Challenge time.
I, the poet, am powerful,
And I, the poet, have no doubt that
The pen is mightier than the
Guns
And shells and hand-grenades,
And nuclears,
And for the sake of memory, swords.
I, the poet,
Sanely swim,
In my insanity.

Echoes

The clock is ticking, my life inert, frozen,
In moments as old as a relieving summer,
In memories that are but alive.
And the coldness of their frozen replays,
Nothing but sand slipping away
From a palm so wide open
That all my strength is still so scarce
To close and grab the last grain of present
From falling away to kindred rivers.
I struggle to sail my boat,
Away to safer streams
Unrippled by the fall of boulders of yesterday
But i'm stuck in a whirlpool
Swilling myself in yester smiles
While I drown in ignorance of now's nuance.

I hear echoes, my past is still calling ,
My mind ceases the journey
But hands begin rowing to escape
The hollow reverberations of sunflower-ed memories
As if feet struggling to climb a steeping slope
Braving through chilly winds of my mind's coercion.

The unkempt boat breaks in two,
And the crack echoes to far and within.
The clock stops ticking.

Reflections

And what troubles you?
The nothingness of reasons,
The confusions, cluelessness
Like a bird stretching wings to fly
And the wind drying her eyes
Yet unaware of where to fly
Unaware of where she flew from
Unaware why she flies.
But her tears are drying,
And isn't that fine?

And what do you plan to do of it?
For a moment, just swim deep
In the blues of ocean
But not so deep
That the pressure crushes me
And I fail to swim up again
For the ocean is lovely
But the air is where my breath lies.

Does it hurt? Or is it a relief?
It hurts, yes, and it relieves, yes, too,
Uncertainty doesn't hurt, does it?
Does watching the stars hurt?
Lying on toughened glass, gazing above,
Only the glass is now broken and piercing
And the redness deluging from you
Finding its fade in the black of sky
The glass hurts, yes,
and the stars relieve, yes.

What do you do for ending it?
I don't.
I can't.
I don't wish to.
I just let it flow and it flows, like Niagara,
Hits a rock and speeds up
Turns into a mist for a summer relief
Or falls, down and down,
And down, and down,
Lost forever or perhaps on another journey.
Perhaps, a cycle to flow and return and fall,
Again.
Isn't that the cycle of life they talk about?

What does it feel like?
Like a farmer watching rain.
He needs it and the wheats yearn and yell.
But will it overdo and rive his dream?
Can it not?
Or like a knife stabbed inside.
There is blood on me and within is metal,
Sharpened.
And if I remove, it hurts and I may die,
Do I wish to die?
The knife remains in, as if part of me already.

And what helps you?
This does.

The Passersby

A boy was crossing the staircase 

But bumped into a group

As heavy as he was,

Shot with comments of a truck tyre falling

On the poor passersby

Didn't quite like it, tried to comeback

With "sarcastic comments

 To outsmart bullies",

Something he searched for 

Just the previous sleepless midnight 

He tried to do the best savagery

But a shoe came out of the blue

And smacked him fallen onto the ground

With pricking laughter piercing within.

He trod home troubled with terror

And overthought the whole live day

To complain seemed a child's play

And to appear helpless was sheer dismay.

And so he went to the school, the tyre went back,

Thoughtless still,

Yet so brave in appearance.

Pretending to ignore, to not care,

While contemplating replies

To the constant dares.

And soon did he notice

That more had joined

To relish laughs out of his bulky misery.

And thinking happened again

And mocking happened again

And each night and day happened again 

So different the calendar said

Yet all the same, perhaps each day worse

Than the worst of yesterday

Still wondering what to say

For excuses of illness didn't work,

Promises and bets never did work,

And nothing stopped the mocking bird.

There were pictures drawn

And enjoyment fair

Glasses smudged 

And jokes shared,

All with a pretense of deep ignorance

While words kept winning the war within.

And finally did he confront,

Not others but himself, the tyre,

The elephant, the hippo, the cow, the him

That normalcy is but no judgment

And the zoos did fit, the tyres still called,

Each staircase brimmed with grinning passersby,

Just the words now mattered a tad bit less,

Attacked and hurt a tad bit less, a very tad less,

And now, he grew used to them

Used to the badgering words and howls

Used to sharpened words so foul,

Used to, not relieved, they say,

Because not all stories end in happy days.

Not mine atleast.

Misfit Managed

Flashing teeth and tinkling cheers
Of dazzling smiles and clicking glasses
The red unwelcome to my misfit me
Whose eyes seek a rarer corner
Far and away from the fraught flood of funny folks
And so I pretend and put on a show
Of preoccupance and engagement

I receive calls from fictional phones
And numbers drawn out in my mind
And the talker talks without delay
Constraining me to those cut-out corners
I chose for my inability of indulgence.

I laugh and I then chat in seriousness
I listen, pretend to listen, and nod my head in agreement
For even in calls from nothingness,
I hesitate to disagree.
I introspect my little theatrical
And contemplate my next excuse,
For concocted calls too demand an end.

I then need to hustle in,
In and into flowing conversations.
Imploring the worth of my presence
And the difference of my absence,
Both answering out to none.
None, also my will of merriment
And my strength to pretend more
of all alright
As if i'm no misfit that walks among all
Playing parts of silly strangers,
Strange to even my misfit myself.