A Farewell Speech

I leave this as the culminating word
To be spoken when I rest at last
By someone who knew me in and out
Someone who knew all secrets for the longest,
Who saw me change a million times
And stay the same a million times.
Goodbye fair world, not so fair,
Don't cry yet, I am at peace for good,
Or maybe do cry, because you want to 
And I never stopped you.

I hope you liked the menu though,
I did ask for Italian, not too sure 
If my request was followed.
Not too sure where my stiff now lies,
Not too sure how you feel, how can I be?
Not too sure what lies ahead, if it does,
Not too sure how the pyramids were laid either.

Here has arrived, the awaited moment,

When flaws are kicked
Out of memory and the virtues all start
Flowing in like moths to a lit flame
Like ants to sugar and candied treats
Like tears to the news of a goodbye
Like this very second of still so silent time.
And the reminiscence now so ridden,
Of my anger and my shrieks
Of all the times I made you crave
To snatch your hair out in exasperation
To make you pinch yourself in desperation,
And replaced with all the tranquil memories
Of appreciation for my words written
Of all my work and laze alike,
Regardless of your liking or not.

For death is the one true binder 
That nulls all wrong and heeds all of good
And so do I hope has happened with me.
I am clueless where I will lead, as is science,
To meet the ones I lost is my hope,
Or will I linger around as is the doubt?
Will I bless you all from skies above?
Will I become a god now?
None shall know the answer
A mystery as funny as life itself
Life to which I bid goodbye.

And don't cry for I've died.
You see, I never saw death as the opposite of life.

I saw death as a part of it.

Sleep Eludes Me

 Sleep eludes me like a lover,

A lover that but exists in dreams,

Dreams that bewitch sense,

Dreams, sitting on the fence.

A fence that holds those who sin.

A fence that pricks and hurts my skin 

Skin, that wrinkles, in wait of love and

Night, that lights in dire dove.

Dove that flew around my dreams,

Dreams of lovers, and shrewd means.

Means to wish a pause in learn,

And here I wish, my sleep return.

Revisited

 He revisited.

Came and sat beside me,
And asked why my mix-tape
Mused to melancholy.
And I stared blank into
The whiteness of the blank walls
That surrounded me.
I looked out the window
Waiting for answers to pass through me
But the day was as silent as my lips
And no winds blew
Carrying the replies I needed.

His smiles started to level.
And he demanded reasons of my silence.
And reasons, were met with silence.
The window was still open,
The horizon grew invisible
Covered with gray clouds
I could feel the rain's first drop
As could my eyes, wettened, by rain?

He gave up, told me I needed help.
But didn't offer.
The rains weren't concealed anymore.
That day saw a deluge.
And he left, like always,
Under the coloured shades of his umbrella.
My mix-tape kept playing
And rains poured, everywhere.

He was me, younger.
He was happier.

Eclipse

The luna had arrived and hid the sol
And plunged in darkness the
whole wide land of the masked souls.
And the souls did come to view the glory
of a barren moon
Concealing that which
whose stories were told.
The birds illusioned
their sun had gone .
And their time
to chirp and play was slept
to rest this rebelling day .
Then came the brainiacs with
ideas thousands.
And theories of how the lives of
humans lay in unrest
For an arrangement of
bodies unheard away had been
so naive to nocturnal nascency .
And the glittering
eyes of a tad fat teen
Shone as white as a keen sunday,
And another box of a
checklist was ticked away to glee . 

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.

So Do I

Humans make mistakes
And so do I
I wish I could use that excuse
But humans disappoint
And so did I

And they let you down
And I do so too
They fail you, they're selfish
And so am I

Humans are obstinate
And I am too
And they fall short
And so have I

Might I hide myself behind the curtain
Of human tendency to err
And fade into oblivion
I cannot and hence humans cry
And so do I.

Poetry

A poet's words found me and sheltered
My wrinkled forehead,
Embraced me and whispered
That I wasn't alone
Not the first to run into
The darker shades of blinding light
From the gentles of the nascent night
And not the last one strugging to inhale
The seldom ever seen freshness
Of the morning winds- unpolluted.
They read my mind and imprinted my life
In verse of ones I had never known
Yet felt so near that they could hear
All my whining in no requirement
Of utterances from my vocal weakness.
I breathed in and out and felt the newfound
Freshness of the breezing stanzas
of nature's poets.
And in my confidingness,
The sibilance of sunrisen sighs
of stoical satisfaction
Lended me a notepad
And a pencil sharpened enough
To write a lifetime of my very own verse.
Gave me a home inside mine
And a room so filled with metaphor
That solace itself found solace,
Tucked beside the barren bedside,
Under the pillowcovers
Of oh so poignant poetry.

Waiting For The Night To Arrive

Running towards avocations
And delusive laughs and smiles,
Towards comfort from second-strings,
Towards a shelter safe and far from my latent insecurities,
Towards a simpering mask to put on my face
And conceal my very self.

Wish I could change like weather
And stop my silent trickle,
To rainbow-ed sunshine.
Transit from roaring tempests,
To the coolness of a cloud's shade.
And be lesser like the sea,
Forever same, churning within,
Screening salty secrets of solemn sorrows,
Yet strutting a sunny face at the morning's sand.

I reach my mask and put it on but it slips, For my face is oceanly wet with a sea of salted tears.
Tears of tiredness from expectations ,
And not living up to them.
Those of others and many more mine, Tiredness from disappointed eyes of those around and away,
And those staring at me
From behind the mirror.
And my mask slips again,
Exposing the redness of the black in me, Waiting for the night to arrive
And lend hope to breathe again
In a world of suffocating strangles.

Mother's Touch

Clasping on like a soldier his sword,
Little hands swaddled in
The gentle warmth of motherly care.
Eyes squinched and forehead wrinkled
At a look of the world's hasting crowds.
A voice unable to reach out and up, Towards the enduring heights
To his mother's sharpened ears.
He holds her close like indigent nomads do The bag of their only right and earning.

The cattle moves like a bat out of hell,
And a soul as little as a single raindrop in An ocean contrived by mighty rivers
Is ever so unnoticed.
The earners move and now they move
So rather like raged elephants,
A path hedged is a path stomped away.
And the white shine in innocent eyes does Not wish to yet be stormed, like many Others who willingly would.
A teeming rush deluges in,
And drags the gullible eyes away,
Away from the only home they had known.
His shrieks of panic and dire distress
Shunned to nil by the crowd's grey noise.

And as he feels the final touch of maternal concern,
Reaching for him yet dwindling away,
His mind avalanches with trembling thought.
He stands alone, as little as a second,
To face the world of a billion years.
Piercing through builts worth ten of him, Slithering away to find the touch
Of the white cottons of his mother's fate.

Seconds, twelve, stretch away to a million moments
And the sharp eyes of evil scare,
The value of a captured young is never too less.
A hand grabs him so fixedly,
And pulls away from the mortar pestle,
Wettened eyes frighten to terror and turn,
To see a mother's relief, a clinch so firm,
An embrace locked and a ruffle of hair
Finally bring the nightmare to an end.

Ocean

I try to mimic the song
Of the ocean waves lapping onto my feet
Dotted with sand as tiny as the value
Of those feet in the untold of space.
The white froth of the melange of this aqueous air
Whisked by a tide for another,
Flooding to ankle-depth of my brown skin,
Darkening the ochre of the sand with
Wettened paleness of rusted grey sea,
The saltiness of the ocean's call
Overpowering the salts of sweat and tear
Like nothing ever could.
The forever flash of vermillion is down
For the sand is still sprinkled magic in its absence
And glinting colour is not the only beauty.
The rushes ruffle the sand again
And my feet sand-wiched between both
Go cold and blue with the taste of sea
For cold and blue and winter can be happy too.
My eyes, they behold the swiftness
Of this natural enginery, older,
Much older than all our ages collected
And much longer than all our breathes could ever be summed.
Larger than life and larger than death,
The ocean's gentleness evokes motherly caress
And my eyes shut down to its acceptance of love.

Dystopia

The ocean boils and ices flow
Like whitened despair on hope's surface,
Wings cry and then drop dead down
To scorched concrete,
For there's only concrete all around.
Trees shed their green as homage
To the earth that once used to be,
And prepare for death in the dry of dusk.
The winters wallow in woeful winds,
The summer screeches of searing sorrow,
Terrorized beyond the threshold of tolerance
And on the bleak brinks of dire blights.
The monsoons deluge as if for the last ,
Brawling to realize the bible's prophecies.
The fall has fallen, given up to fate and
The spring had left so long ago.
The blue planet has turned to grey,
The greens have turned to fire and marble,
The future has turned blurrier than
The air of blooming urban marvels.
The sea arrives to seal our homes
And immerse them for its rising spikes,
The coastal plain has dived in blue
To rid the sand of its plastic guise.
The left of mankind now battles for life
Both with the earth and for it
And among itself to seize supplies
Priced like ivories of a fossiled mammal.
Givers of breath now struggle for it,
The mortal faces have nowhere to hide
But face the wrath and vanish, to return
The earth its sanguine sunrise.

The Eyes Behind My Mirror

The eyes behind my mirror
Look straight and speak no false.
The eyes behind my mirror
Do not hesitate.
The eyes behind my mirror
Hurt me and hurt so much.
The eyes behind my mirror
Are bullies, but only to me.

The eyes behind my mirror
Body shame and hit me.
The eyes behind my mirror
Do that physically and mentally.
The eyes behind my mirror
Question my skills that I never had.
The eyes behind my mirror
Compare my misery to the bliss of others.

The eyes behind my mirror
Point at my insecurity.
The eyes behind my mirror
Laugh at me and my anxiety.
The eyes behind my mirror
Do not stop even if I beg them to.
The eyes behind my mirror
Are ruthless and shut me down.

The eyes behind my mirror
Speak bitter truths so unwanted.
The eyes behind my mirror
Mock my shape and my inner doubts.
The eyes behind my mirror
Make me cry with no sympathy.
But the eyes behind my mirror
Also cry along with me. 

The Greener Side of The Grass

The better, the greater, the fitter,

The brighter, the greener side of every note,

Enclosed in wishes and floating dandelions

On footsteps of temples and in crosses of faith,

In bowed prayers and joining palms,

Forever a wish of a finer fate forth,

Oblivious to the share of somber bads

In the realization of the subtles of bliss 

For it is ordeal that ordains the open gusto

And the dark isn't evil as evils think.

It is honest and it speaks,

It speaks and it reeks

That not each day shall be yellow and glee.

It reeks of truth, truth that is

Sour to hear and thus oft ignored

But ignorance is never so fit to face

The tread of trembling turmoil

The thread of threat and trouble

The tasking ticks of wishful tomorrowland.

For reflect, if it wasn't for bad

How would you pick the good among the crude?

If the blue and black and brown 

Weren't pinned despairs of dark,

Would the yellow be always sunshine?

If pain was a demon ever unseen

Would the fairies of frolic ever bless of bliss?

If tears of terribleness never fell,

Would the tears of rejoice matter so?

And so if the grass never turned to yellow

Would the greener side still be so green?

The Journey of a Short Lifetime

Birthed in a white foamy fluff
Scattered across the peach blue plate
Melted into sphered heaven
Delight of the tired reaper's fate,
Dived a length of no mortal's limit
Plunged across the nothingness of winds
And swayed across to somber urban state
To soaring glasses and silicate.
Where some did reach it's birthing home
Cascaded around the exasperate,
Up and around the fatigued faces
And onto the wheels of a driver's love.
Where it rested upon the translucent glass
And struggled to keep from falling again
It trickled, alas, and trickled swift down
The view of a teenager's intentive eyes
Who perhaps would pen a poem down
For its very existence, the story of it's life.
The window edged and it dropped apace
To cemented floor which once was sod
And beheld a kid relish the pour and hint
The rarest smile, among the masking faces.
The kid with his shoe, perhaps a gift of motherly love,
In dynamic detained, vaulted up and on the fallen victim,
Now corrupted by the dusted brown of the shoe's midsole
And teared apart into countless pieces,
None with a hint of it's kosher soul,
The end of a very short lifetime
Of the tepid raindrop.