Stories of any kind

The kind of stories I want to tell,

I do not know If,

I will ever be able to tell them as they are.

To say a poor man is poor,

I will tell you about him,

And the things he did to endure the day,

And fill his belly with food.

I will tell but I will hope,

The man finds his happiness soon.

I know it will make my stories false.

But I will be truly happy then.

Feel this art we create with lives,

These lives are of humans like us.

We will pinpoint differences later,

For now, they are just like us.

I don’t want to be proud of something,

Which came out of someone’s miserable days.

I would have written about my life,

But this boredom rules the king.

Picking up a piece from a life,

And holding it against voices and opinions,

It is cruel when it emits satisfaction to the ego.

All while their origins remain the same way they were.

Our boring live must be content,

With the little crux we have.

Ordinary things are beautiful too.

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Beautiful Things

Beautiful things kill you.
Sometimes they are swift
And sometimes they take their sweet time.
But since we know
What we will find in the end,
We should like them with caution.
Take the snow for example,
The whiteness in front of you will seem pure,
And fluffy.
But once you taste its likeness to the raw edge,
You will run away from it,
Back to your grounds where spring stays forever.

Beautiful things despise the average things of world.
They do not know
That the world itself is average.
A pale reflection of what it was supposed to be.
It isn’t what we thought.
And it’s good because we have time.
I suppose we can make it whole
Before we give it to the ones
Who are next in line.
Thoughts are not beautiful
That’s why I have them.
It is noble that we should save the Earth.
I do not. We will not.

The Earth looks beautiful from space.
It should have beautiful things with it.
They should stay.
We are average folks and
This is the world we inherit.
We are meant to go.
Forever doesn’t mean being stubborn.
It means the beauty of moments shouldn’t stay.
We should go.
Now.

I am wide awake

I am wide awake
And the streets wear silence.
I do nothing but stare
At random things
And thoughts.

How often it was
When I told you
We should run away.
The world has got a short memory.
Everyone would have forgotten us.
As even I do not remember our love.
Was it fiction or fact?
I rack my brains to find the answer.
There is none.
It must have been a book
I read somewhere long ago.
Its figments are coming back.
What’s your name?

These broken bits do not tell any story

These broken bits do not tell any story.

Say they do not get well along with each other.

They murmur quietly to them as they go with the day.

Everything is uncertain and unanswered.
They and the Gods seem mutually done with each other.

This jail has got their cruel comfort, confined.

They don’t have the hero who can save them.

Save for the hope which slogs them day and night.
Their simple faces do not have the crux of a good life.

The essence is grief has not captured them.

But the regularity of their common notions fails them,

As to why they can’t tell from need and want. 

This damned verse

Here is the song the damned souls of the world say.
Oh God up there in the sky,

We are doomed.

Damn this life and its meaning,

& I don’t see any sun.

Life’s been hurting,

Ever since it began,

I’m done with it and its pain,

Hope now spells itself hell.

It seems like I’m crying,

For bitter and cruel is its taste,

Trust is gone with unanswered questions,

Too late it’s been for rain.

Was the world cold before,

Or it happened since I came.

I know the taste of losing sense,

What has happened, what begun.

We are losing souls by the day,

They don’t bear these cold nights.

For we cry out too loud,

And the dead silence does

Pry deep into our lives.

All said and nothing done,

A man was never known so.

You ask us to love you,

Where does yours go.

Questions pop up out of surface,

If you have got other plans.

Tell us if you always seek attention,

Or it just happens so.

You are the cruel thing,

We are your bitter fun.

Poked and pried by you for none,

You seek attention, maybe it gets you high,

The chiming bells and the help asking cries.

You like your pride and the begging prayers,

You hurt them because they aren’t near.

All this drama is painful and insane. 

For your angels and demons,

Damn your heaven and hell.

Burn them holy books,

Raze your homes to the ground.

We’ve killed each other always,

Instead of killing you.

This blind hatred which runs amok in our hearts,

Blessed the world would be if we didn’t have a heart.

The Universe and Me

The night sky has stars and a moon. I look at them. The Earth revolves around the Sun and it’s just one of those innumerable stars in Milky way galaxy. This ever expanding Universe has innumerable galaxies and stars. All of it seems so big, it makes my imagination work extra hard. Innumerable stars and innumerable possibilities of anything. All of my worries, regrets, mistakes and stupidities look bleak in face of it. So bleak it makes me question life as I know it.
The wind blows and I still think about the stars, black holes and darkness around them. The sudden rush of knowing that all of human knowledge and achievements and everything said, done or written in human history is just a meagre part of the Earth, which itself is a meagre constituent of the Universe. This knowledge should be humbling. But I tend to forget it in my day-to-day interactions and often revert to my usual persona. So there is it, start from the stars and return to me.
Let me be the center of this Universe,
Ego shall be happy then that everything is about me.

What’s A Man?

आदमी क्या है? What is a man?
He is a question asked by himself.
I ask this question occasionally. It is appealing to my mind. It makes me feel like a erudite man.
One couldn’t find answer at home. You can find questions or comforts at home, but the world outside has answers. So i stepped out.

Who am I?
This thing was on my mind. Constantly. It was there when I reached the limit of my village and looked at the road.
The road. It’s always been there. Answers to every journey and destination. Maybe the road can answer my question.
I walk. And I walk a little more. Sweat makes me feel sticky. The wind ain’t blowing and stench of sweat is everywhere. It is in my hands, my hair, my clothes, everywhere. It is in my mind and the things I say. It is in the roadside flowers and overgrown bushes.
I see a tree and decide to sit down. Continue reading