I have heard this probably a thousand times from people, cursing the weather, the traffic, the situation they are in, complaining and cribbing about other people, about their pain, about how insignificant they feel, comparing their lives with others, drooling over things they believe they
Death is coming. It is that certainty up ahead that everyone is aware of. You don’t know which day could be your last. Is it today, tomorrow, maybe a few years down the road? There’s an unsaid eventuality lurking in every story. You could be
माँ तुम ना हो तो,हर शब्द है चिंघाड़,हर जिद्द है नखरा,हर कदम पर चोट,मरहम दे आँसू,हर बच्चा कंधाऔर जुबां बंदूक | हर गाना है तानाजो चुभता रोज़ाना,हर बात है बतंगड़,हर लफ्ज़ है कराहना,हर काम है पर्वत,हर लक्ष्य है चोटिल | असीम अँधेरा,ढूंढू तुझे हर दिनहै
The door is open,All my insecurities walk inWhen you talk about leaving.Think it must be my faceThat tries to effaceYour very existence from my life,Or could it be my hairThat goes nowhereNear to complement my style?Or is it my voiceThat makes a weird noiseWhenever it
Victim to the human condition,I have been torn,Now scars are bornWhere there used to be a picture.I can’t find it now,I had a story some minutes agoThat someone smudged,And I have no idea why –I don’t understand their ways of life.Subjected to some critical liesThat
Words have never been enoughTo fit a story of love,And what it makes you feel inside.You think ecstasy is it,But that barely scratches it,Is it the rapture in your heart?But that barely covers it,And whatever brings euphoriaWhen it ushers in,Or what bliss should all be
Words so tragic,Letters of magic,She spinsA web so wellShe would putAny writer to shame,Or elicit a nodOf prideFrom her kind,And force a clapFrom brooding eyes,And a thumbs upFrom the wonder keeper.Her brain is a marvelOf thoughts insaneAnd she chugs itLike an engine,Her heart beats through
You aren’t so close to me That I start whispering secrets In your ears, These secrets are afraid of distance, And if you were near I would be talking to your eyes More than to your ears, I might slip them down your lips, And
Printed stories on my body, I know I become something When I am read, I erupt in words And read someone else’s misery. I stink, But ask a lover How to smell, They leaf through me To find secrets from their hell. Few know I too
I wish my life could be as erratic as Charles Bukowski changed jobs in Factotum. To be able to quit apathy as it gnaws upon my soul. How magnificent life would be then! To be able to do anything, absolutely anything just for the heck