Dystopia of a Poetry

A poem is a kid's persistence,

To have an elephant for 

Himself in his favorite bottle.

A poem is a lover's belief that

Even in Satan's heart, he can 

Manage to find her.

A poem is a battle against

The world to prove that unicorns

Are hatched out of eggs.

A poem is a the way midnight

Screams at an empty road

Without making any noise.

Silence of raindrops touching

The last leaf of a dying tree,

Crackle of dew settling on

In the Savannas after it was

Destroyed by the fire.

A poem is Grandmas eating

Chocolates without guilt,

Moms taking dance classes,

While cooking and nieces 

Forcing you to be a customer 

In their imagery restaurant.

A poem is a belief, a revolt.

A hope, a memory.

It's the sound of pain from

Epiglottis. Whispers of

Cussing in the rosary beads

Used for chanting.

It's anything really.

What you can write and 

What you can't. What you can

See and what you can't.

The long episodes of blankness,

Random streaks of lunacy.

Poems are overwhelmed

Emotions popping out like 

Popcorns. One by one you just 

Put them in your mouth to 

Watch this dystopian movie

Called life.

Poems are your children

Poems are your children-
The, could have been,
Would have been and
The actual ones.

The ones you would have
Laughed, cried, and silently
Missed all along.

And as they learn to walk
Through you- some fall
And rise.
Some tumble off a rock
And break their head.

Some come out with a
Limp and you gotta hold
Hands to say it's okay.
Some turn out to be
Mute and blind-

To accommodate them
You learn sign language
And Braille.
Some will top the class,
Some, commit a crime.

The one you wouldn't
Have wanted will make you
Laugh and one you revered
Will, maybe drag you down
The street naked.

But is it immoral to have
Them?
Are you even worthy of
Making that judgment?

When you yourself- a poet-
A bastard out of an
Orgy in your head.
Why not let them take-

Birth out of the random sparks
In your head to run across
The lanes of their fancy?

To reach unintended places

To trigger more sparks-

That might melt down, all

The miserable strongholds. 

Poet

The old photo frames,

With their tattered
Black and whites, still
Try to be relevant.

The fake plastic trees,
That sit in the showcase,
Mock the houseflies,
In an attempt to ooze life.

Dust ridden trophies
Looking down on the
Broken toys still seem
To be haughty and proud.

The dried flowers,
Stripped off of all fragrance,
Still peeking from the corner,
To lure the bees in vain.

And I'm sitting here,
Judging them all,
Trying to gather up all
Ill-fated words to prove..

That I'm a goddamn
Poet at last.

Poetry in handcuffs

When you force out the

Words from the ghetto of

Your rigid mind.

And they slide down

Perching, through the

Labyrinth of mutilated

Thoughts.

The life out of it losing

All objectivity and

The objectivity having

Squeezed out of life..

As they cascade down

Via the pretense of

A verbose pen to spread

On the charade of a paper.

The reader has to tie

It up to a chair to beat a

Confession out it, 

For some meaning..

Only to give up in dejection,

To flush it down into

Forgetfulness; in search of

A better meaning to life..

Than this tragedy 

Called poetry.

Compulsive Habit

When the moon

Comes up.

I gotta to put him

Down in my words.

When leaves rustle, 

Sparrows chirp. 

I gotta host them

In my pages. 

From amidst the

Casuarina trees,

When the wind blows,

I want it to bask in 

The warm comfort 

Of my reveries.

This noose around

My neck-

A compulsion to

Blurt it all out.. 

Tonight, the lizard 

On my wall, crawls, 

Holding a gun to 

My temple.. 

As, about it,

I'm unable to write,

Even a single 

Sentence.

Self Censorship

Weeping of any 

Form should be 

Declared as a crime.

Teardrops kissing

The cheeks is

Love-jihad. 

Speaking of any

Sorts should be

Looked down upon.

How dare you 

Set your both lips 

Apart?

Blinking of eyes.

Throbbing of heart.

Even breathing

Is such a laborious

Task.

Unemployment,

That's why is so

Rampant.

The left of the brain, 

Slips in a duel

With the right. 

While grey cells

Tend to go on a 

Hunger strike. 

And from around

Somewhere, 

A crooked thought,

Undemocratically

Dictates its terms.

The rest of the

Neurons do not

Fire up in protest. 

But my confused

Hand doesn't

Follow restraint.

To make a point

It doesn't hesitate. 

Un-aware,

It bloody doesn't

Understand.

That these battles 

Often die 

Unceremoniously

On a piece of 

Paper..

As pens do not

Have enough

Firepower. 

Transcendence

Don't try,

To force

Your thoughts,

Against fragility

Of words.

Till they fit into

A noose and

Die dry on a

Sheet of paper.

Don't try,

To milk your

Emotion into

A jar of pretense.

Till they choke

Under a charade

And fail to evoke

Any real feeling 

Off them.

Let it come to

You like a 

Feeble caress of

A lover.

Let it come to

You like a 

Gentle brush

Of wind.

When you sit

Aloof and as she

Passes by in

Your mind like

A fagrance.

If a tiny spark

In your mind,

Materializes into

A thought to

Fall in love with

A word.

Maybe then.

Maybe then

Pick up that pen

To trace the

Transcendent

Line.

Dead Words

We don't talk

These days.

Yet some silence

Lurks around,

In bits and pieces,

In Appeal.

We don't see 

Each other

These days.

Yet this longing

Hangs tight

Like a hungry bird

Poised to peck.

Memories of your

Scent.

Creases of your 

Skin. 

It's hard to sit

Idle with you 

All-over my head.

So I try to force

My thoughts,

Into fragility of

Some words. 

They eventually

Fall prey,

To fit into a noose 

And die dry on a 

Sheet of paper.

There's nothing

Blander than 

Watching dead words

And I'm swimming

In the smoke of 

My own funeral pyre.

Dead Poet

Dear poet. I read your obituary in the newspaper. Didn't know how to interpret it. 

Are you really gone or is it one of the instances that you just can't write? 

Are you choking on your words or you have done away with yourself from over a fan? 

I hope it is just a series of miscarriages in your head. I would like to believe that you are in your cave, taking time to come up with something new as you always do. 

I didn't know how to comprehend the headline, "Death of a poet". As it seemed like a beautiful metaphor you would use.

Hope everything is fine. And you're working on your next piece.

Tainting Apathy

The papers want

To be tainted.

They pray for 

Redemption from

The blinding of

The blank.

The pen is a 

Messenger of 

The god.

Rescuing the 

Damned.

Poetry is a 

Warrior knight. 

Cosmic Job

There's a strange 

Feeling that's 

Simmering on the

Tips of my fingers.

An unusual quiver

Passing beneath

My feet. 

I feel a layer of skin

Upon me and 

Someone is trying to

Break it free.

Looks like something

Is in wake. 

My pen wants me

To go on a ride.

A piece of paper

Must be praying

For its redemption

From the blank.

Cosmic forces may

Have chosen me

For the job..

To balance the

Equilibrium..

Let me write a

Line. 

Hello

These bruises 

And scars.

Half-cut smiles, 

And broken stars.

Little insides that 

Die daily to 

Humiliation and

Self-sabotage.

The taints we 

Nourish to grow

Colors..

A slang from you,

An Arrow from

Another.

Our palette,

Full of blame 

Is pretty much 

Borrowed.

We're poets sire,

We paint in words,

Take on nerves and

Live in shadows.

You may not 

Recognize us.

We don't reside in

Hearts that are hollow.

Come and see us,

If you've time.

We're just a 

Thought away.

If you peep in 

Your head, 

In search of aesthetics 

In the dust 

Of your mind..

Hello..!

Wake of Revolution

Termite infestation

In my heart.

Creeping everywhere,

These dusty burrows

Tell me that they're

A piece of art.

Leaches feeding

On my soul.

Purge of my mind,

The Holi I'm part of

Is a bloody war. 

Gag on my mouth,

Flies in my head.

Blood has turned

Thick, 

A nuclear fission

In wake.

These words,

Crawling inside.

Before they 

Burst open and

Write a revolution..

Give me my pen.

Artistic Paranoia

For a 

Half baked soul 

In a fully grown

Body.

An overcooked

Poem,

For this night

Feels heavy.

The Ill lit humour,

This sweet 

Dessert carries..

Can subsume

A galaxy..

Can't take it

I'm really sorry.

Those compositions

Are musical

Diarrhoea..

Your paintings,

Artistic malaria.

Is this the way

World's gonna end?

Apocalypse will

Just be an artistic 

Paranoia?

I don't know,

You tell me.

Starting with mine.

You're putting all

The lives at risk.

Russian roulette

 And when the bluebird rides your thoughts and there is no way out. You take your pen and paper and scribble everything down like you wanna bleed it all out. But It's just a trail of mental diarrhea on paper. Nothing redeeming.

Then the bluebird pokes, chokes, and churns you to find a way out. Hours, days, weeks at the cost of coffee; you just waste ink, mocking, the trees lie in front of you as paper.

From morning to evening. You hang to the shades of despair. Hoping for some Redemption, but it's all just buying time to bottle up more frustration, but the bluebird demands and you have to obey.

So you decide to play Russian roulette. You have to. You against the bird. You put in a bullet, roll the cylinder and hold it to your head. A pen in one hand and in the left, the gun, to keep you at the edge. 

Then the pen moves.. some winds...some stars. moon rain. Fuck. Same Loop, and there is nothing new. The other hand takes and clicks. It's a blank. Deep breathe.. The right one goes again.. scribble.. scribble.

The dark the light and insecure nights...Then. What? Wait, wait what. That's all the bluebird demands. Then another click. Fucking Deer Hunter flashbacks, and then the right-hand moves without even waiting for a gasp. 

The lonely. The only... then what? Christiana Perry to George Clooney? you fucker, don't bring clichés curses the bird. Before you ride another thought, it's over. But not really. Three down and still not a proper sentence?

Writer's block, writer's block, I feel like a stopped clock. Hahaha. Let me complete that for you says the left one.

 Writer's block, writer's block. If not, by claustrophobia. You shall be killed by... There... No word. Click. Game over.

Redemption

Between your ears

There is a prison.

Down your throat

There's a whistle.

Clenching your chest

A pump dictates

Terms of your life.

The thing between

Your thighs cries

Purpose of your life.

While two beans around

Same region has

Mocked it all the while.

The words that 

Quiver in your hand

Are in search of a

Place to safely land.

And how nice it is

If your redemption

Comes via the verses

You write.

Story Barter

Each time sea-waves

Break on the beach.

A story is left to be

Forgotten.

Well stirred.

Well thought and

A well crafted story

Is left in the sand

To be gone.

I dipped my feet

To forget my own.

Ended up writing

Another instead.

A story absorbed

To abandon another.

Against the one I wrote

To let another float.

The one that came 

Out as ink is fine. 

Mine must be a

Giant-sad-wave by now.  

Reminiscing is a Full meal

Memories have a 

Wrinkled face.

Nostalgia feels 

Like grandma's

Place.

Cosy, comfortable.

Worry free and

Free, fat food at

Will.

Reminiscing is

A full meal. 

And I've been

Dipped in the 

Trance of past

For so long that..

Now, I'm an 

Overweight ass.

My mind may break 

Bearing all my past.

Doctors advised me

To exercise and run...

But in the end,

It took some writing 

To shed calories 

From my head. 

Got a Quill instead

I'm no bird that

Can soar high,

With flap of

Wings.

I'm no animal

To survive the

Wild and breath

Free.

I'm no mantis 

To disguise my

Prayer and

Find my game.

And I'm no microbe

To to grow my

Appendage at

Will.

I'm just a human 

With aspirations.

Myriad dreams 

To fullfill.

They said, I can't fly. 

To prove them wrong,

Stretched my hands.

A wish for wings

To go wrong..

God offered me a

Quill instead of

A fancy frill.

Poem Currency

Broken pens

Don't have 

A say.

Empty papers

Are as good

As a hope

That's nay..

For a war

That's waged

In head,

Poetry is a

Price I gotta

Pay.