Give him blood sucking wars, give him the beauty of stars,
give him the melancholy bristle of wild chrysanthemums in the valley.,
give him a space to smoke up, maybe a quaint quiet alley.
Give him twisted books and the worlds that the authors shook,
give him today, tomorrow and money to borrow.
Give him blotters, give him plotters,
give him friends, give him the sadness that
creeps in when all the love in between beautifully ends.
Give him camphor lights, give him momentary lethal frights,
give him the taste of his mother’s sacred tears,
give him the habit that dazes and amps up his involuntary fears.
Give him anything that you can think of,
give him a life that is split into half and half.
Give him a mask, give him a face
give him gruesome tasks to bring him disgrace.
Give him the right to fly away
and tie his wings for him to stay.
Give him lust to shed his soul apart,
But no! Do not give him a delicate heart.
a dying wish to be a ghat-man.
To breathe in the air of thousand meters high,
to know the denseness of my tessellated self.
As hairpin curves lead way to foresee shadows of heaven
that God had guiltily retained for men of passion to see.
We could measure the heights
where mists and misfits dance
but we could never understand
the soulful purpose of the same.
We could hear the weary whistle
of the ever-passing wind-
telling secrets of yesterday
that died in unadulterated vain.
A longing to go out of breath on each step,
a dream to be the warmth between
the sweater and the fabric of the shirt.
A desire to be in the air of
three different damp smoke,
one of the cigarette’s,
one of the tea’s and
one from my own breath-
owing to the cold dark soul.
See when I fit there, I’d exist as a whole.
A part of mine that makes me none
would never be there anymore.
I’d shed my curious dead-drop glance
on the hanging drops of dew that cling on
to the green of the leaves with hopes so few-
as though wishing for a vile storm to pass.
Reflecting the muck on the surface,
the clinging dew drop survives and sways.
And right then I’d tether the drop to my finger tip-
just with a graceful touch like a painter
finishing his lady’s face with a freckle.
The dew would embrace the reach of my tip
and I’d walk it through the storm
with the other hand on my hip.
Argh, here I am with a desire to kill that courageous girl,
who doesn’t deserve to live in this miserable world.
Of all the reasons that drive myself to want her dead
most of them are in her own little head instead.
A coward who would like to end her life
doesn’t really cherish the possibilities of love and hope.
A warrior who is courageous enough to step down into the depths of the sea
would be spit out of her depths to get rid of the sickness that lures in and takes form to be.
I need an answer right here and right now,
Why the sea spit you out and made you survive?
Was your shallow self dreadfully weak to reach the depth of her floor?
Or was your deepest fear strong enough to push the salty water out of the shore?
Yes! My selfish self doesn’t know the struggles you have faced
but I want to know the answer that made you to dive
into the madness and euphoric will to die.
I just want to ask “Who are you to take the decision that surfaced?”
Oh, you pathetic soul, I want to kill you right now
For shadowing your reasons and logical sense somehow.
I wish you were dead when you were brought back to the shore,
I wish you don’t live a second to breathe in this culpable air anymore.
Your eyes and face blemished with pores of salty rage
are signs of the God who let you to live and make me enraged.
Why do you want to free yourself from the prison you built?
Why do you want to inject a feel of shame into me with a pinch of guilt?
Yes. I’m ignorant to all your helpless calls
but life isn’t fair my dear and the truth might be false.
For now you have hurt my will to live
and for that I would never have the heart to forgive.
I wish I knew you, so I could take in the blame
of freeing you from this miserable cage of shame.
I wish I had the courage to choke you to death
like how you wanted to cease your worthless breath.
For now my dear, my wishes are seldom reached
life is for living and that is how my conscience would preach.
Whatever it is that made you think about death
is never enough to cease your worthless breath.
His million charm takes over him.
Eye of an artist and high on the whim.
Subtle little troubles of his life
Neither cost him the joy nor did it survive.
He loathes about the things that give us a kick.
Munchies and minions are his first hand pick.
With a smile that melts his eyes to the shrink,
he laughs with us carrying a consistent wink.
Worries mean nothing and they don’t make him sad
His lunatic self beats them with a subluminal fad.
Merry and blissful his life has been
till this 23 years that he has seen.
There are more to come with his joyful wisdom to see,
We wish that you stay as you are and be lovely and free.