Posted in Books, Current Affairs, Literature, Philosophy, Poetry, tagged about, afraid, all, almost, another, ask, back, beginnning, better, boil, book, bouts, break, chapter, clue, confront, countdown, creep, crossroad, days, decide, door, down, ending, epilogue, everyday, eyes, face, fear, few, figure, find, finish, first, future, halfway, hang, happy, hard, hit, hope, hours, how, incomplete, insignificant, jump, keep, knob, knock, know, last, lead, left, made, man, me, mirror, miss, moments, nag, need, next, open, other, out, pages, paragraph, parts, past, pause, place, poem, poetry, pond, problem, prologue, questions, read, reality, remains, remember, return, road, search, sentence, serious, side, sleep, somebody, start, still, stop, story, struggle, talk, tempt, there, this, through, time, today, turn, uncertainty, unclear, unhappy, up, wait, walk, what, where, while, why, words, world, yawn on April 4, 2010|
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The past are days
like pages in a book.
On the first few pages
you can’t figure out
what the story is all about.
Prologue.
“There is a man struggling
to find his place in this world.
Had his share of hits and misses.
Of crossroads where-
it is hard to decide
which road to walk into, and
on which doors to knock.
Afraid, that somebody may not
be there to turn the knob.
And open up.”
If only, these eyes can pause reading
and stop for a while at these words
that almost made me yawn and sleep.
Insignificant hours of keeping on.
Hoping this story will not lead
into another unhappy ending.
“Why do we have to be serious
all the time?”
Don’t ask me. It’s your problem.
The questions still left
hanging in there, moments.
When pages stood unclear,
incomplete with the sentence.
Waiting for somebody
to knock the door. I’ll open up.
“Is that all? Is that all?
Is that all there is to wait
and it all boils down to this?”
Tempted to return to the first few pages.
Back to the parts when I remember
breaking down halfway through a paragraph.
As if not knowing how did it start
somebody talking to me. It should have
been better not to have read at all.
No clues from the beginning.
And the countdown to the hours
remains. Finish reading parts
on the last chapter- I confront.
Today- no happy ending.
Epilogue.
“And fear creeps in like a mirror
he have to face everyday.
There was a time when he need
to jump into the pond of uncertainty.
Searching the man in his reality,
faced with nagging bouts of questions-
What’s next? What’s on the other side?
What’s the future?”
I can’t figure out.
What this story is all about.
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Aching Thread
Posted in Art Scene, Current Affairs, Literature, Memoirs, Philosophy, Poetry, Relationships, Religion, Social Commentary, Society, tagged abstraction, ache, another, answers, ants, asleep, bare, bed, beg, blanks, break, burn, butterfly, calm, chance, cinder, climb, connection, crackle, danger, dark, die, directionless, discover, door, down, dreams, eccentricity, eureka, false, fill, fire, forever, found, grasshopper, hang, hop, hope, images, intruder, islands, isolation, jarring, jot, kingdom, left, limit, linger, lizard, lying, maggot, mantra, moth, naked, neck, night, open, owl, painterly, piece, poem, poetry, point, pounce, questions, ready, realm, reason, restless, ride, sanity, savage, scenes, secret, seek, send, shall, shelter, shit, shout, snap, spectator, squeal, squirm, string, suicidal, thoughts, thread, tonight, vengeance, wall, warmth, white, wide, wind, wings, words, yield on September 13, 2012| Leave a Comment »
My thoughts are as directionless
as the moths seeking for warmth.
The fire within crackles
sending cinders to my realm.
My mantra of calm are as restless
as the grasshopper hopping
to some isolated and jotted
islands of images, dark-
that painterly abstraction.
Jarring and savage.
Some questions will burn tonight.
And answers will die on my bed.
I, like a squirming maggot
will never break it out.
My wings would never ride
the wind like the butterfly.
The ants are climbing
this white walled kingdom.
The night owl squeals a secret.
While the lizard is ready
to pounce for vengeance.
That’s what is left of me.
An spectator to the scenes which
I could not connect in a thread.
Bare. Hope. Chance
snapping some strings
and shout eureka. I found it.
How shall I fill the blanks
that never beg for words?
Naked. Lying here like a piece
of shit and this suicidal poem.
Eccentricity finds no reason,
dangerous and hangs its limit.
That yielding point.
Sanity is a false shelter where
no one wants to be intruder
and break down the door.
Open wide discovering
another neck is lingering
asleep forever in dreams.
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