Accepting

I’m on the different phase of the world,

And I truly believe that I’ve made it home.

I sense the breath inside me against the world,

I’m truly abducted from outside in a place called home.

I paint a true picture while keeping my eyes closed,

Hearing the tales of failure with both my ears closed.

Jumping and wailing and letting the world truly know,

A story of mine carefully curated if I truly know.

Trusting that truth shall deliver not but broken promises,

Waiting as long before I deliver my life before it’s dead.

Today I ain’t getting the answer forged against some promises,

I won’t get it even long after this soul is dead.

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Walk of Life

A little about the walk of life will be told,

The scent of which is inherent in all,

Wherever will be the sound of the music,

You will paddle through waves like a moment ago.

 

Well touched and written about it are books,

Often what seen and felt is never forgotten,

And set inside the travelling heart of all,

Are values, gifts and laughs all round the horizon.

 

One peels off the bad lucrative chin of thoughts,

Lands in the dustbin of forgotten memories,

There where no side is taken, none borrowed,

Lies the sight of God in its full glimmer.

 

Look back don’t you, pass over the present,

Like a clean, shiny mirror speaking nothing but truth,

That one won’t die without a word in the mind,

Of chances there aren’t to forget their’s.

 

So drunken in silence I’m today, out loud my ears heard,

I can’t let go off my veil before the shine of tomorrow,

I rest calm on my bed journeying around the world,

So damn is the challenge, takes nothing but me after all.

 

To the walk of life, I stay stiff still sleeping in the noon,

Watching and crying over elasped moons,

To the age of wisdom, bold and powerful,

I arrest my attitude, laid back and laggard.

To where I scrupled before attending a thought,

So bleak in diffusion and slow to arrange,

Wild ideas, opinions and life of mine’s,

But here in stays slowly to create a sense of change!

Making Me Small

Wondering down the memory lane,

With my both eyes blinking in awe,

I send some sharp sickles to the past,

Trying to look after the young age, of course.

 

It’s evening it seems like looking out of the window,

When will my heart open to know what there is outside?

And if I know better than what I know now,

Will it ever seem to make a difference?

 

Hitting the road hard with constant thump of foot,

I recall myself making my weight large.

While I sneak as soft as I could in those eyes,

Those small shades of truth make me feel hollow.

And then I take alarm of a chance,

That once taken will never be repeated,

But then of course, lies and deceit is all that I do,

And make sure it doesn’t make sense at all!

 

I appear in the light of today,

Glistening by the charm of my words,

I bend before my virtue as I do,

Not make a chaos towards a different truth.

 

With little mind of mine wailing to see a tomorrow,

Calling it a day where future is foreseen,

Thanks if I don’t pay attention,

To the offer of the world of making me small.

Together

Taking a nap I’ll move,

If I’m little more inspired to.

Wincing on the words I prayed with,

I’ll pull my sleeve and bear the cage!

 

 

Strutting down the winter woods,

With friends and foes chattering together,

I’ll lead with colour white on my face,

And let them paint me with their words I say!

 

 

Below the grass I’ll lie,

And ask why I be the light in this darkest time?

Then meddle with the purest of the past,

And weave the cool calmness of today as the untruth!

 

 

I’ll not laugh it’s easy enough,

And put the words in other’s mouth.

I’ll end these worthless words in this way,

Within this little bower of today’s togetherness!

Still Sleeping

Where is the air to rest our nose on,

Is it there where I’ll go easy on the dink of life?

 

An internal look is essential to fill this blank paper,

Or else with these breaths I’ve, I’ll be nothing.

To sleep would a mistake less acceptable,

More will be abiding by the hidden rules of the world.

 

There I’ll walk and stop at the top,

And will see a time going by my side.

Pleasure if I’ll be mine and I write what I want,

To fill this idea of break free, let it not!

Of chances will never come again to smile,

And get smile for your great work done again!

 

Beginning from if I go, somewhere I please,

And keep on going and creating distance,

Till I won’t know what will be therein to happen,

Till I lose a heart so weak of mine,

A time rotten with ample of shine,

A little step ahead to where I’ll end,

Or a buffer pushing to look for more,

I’ll not know what will happen.

And that will be the beauty of it.

 

But what to know and what to hear,

You don’t but I see,

I’m still sleeping.

Imagination

When asked to draw a picture of a farmer ploughing his field in the dawn with fresh drops of sweat making it’s presence felt, and his sickle making the sand dance, my thoughts sickened to an end before I began thinking if imagination is more important than knowledge. What if I don’t know what a sickle looks like, for instance?

So drunk in darkness are we today, if a candle of bright thoughts sneak our brains, we stare away from the intensity of newness that has entered. Nobody wishes to hear the rhythm that life brings about. Nobody wishes to dance away all the bitterness that ponds amongst the banks of negligence. We don’t wish to step, even make a positive call. Lack of imagination takes over as a protagonist of a willfully meaningless story.

When the groups are assembled to practice an ambition, is it a legitimate preposition to approve of the inaccuracy of group to attain a certain goal by being the sole doer? Why fit in when you are born stand out! Imagine the doers in the world…. Do you have any knowledge about them?

Clearly one could sense there’s a serious foulness at play, but you walk in and out as you please. Imagine the level of courtesy the group members possess that they tolerate you as one of their own!

Why need to imagine the distinction of thoughts that I have brought together in this piece of writing if it’s already there in it’s truest form. One must not shy away form stitching these thoughts as all are entitled under one idea: imagination.

Imagine some more meaningless thoughts beyond this full stop.

Everyone Loves A Gift

Talking of favourites, it differs as does the choice perpetuating out of tributaries of human thoughts. No matter what, everyone loves a gift. Yes, but does it matter?

I recall an event from the prologue of my past. It was asking for a gift of an angular pen which gets its name and point of attraction from slightly titled nib of its on the occasion of my birthday. Eventually I received the same with same surprised expression if otherwise if it would have been unknown to me. I could see my eyes glittering with happiness on the mirror adjacent to me as I held this pen closer to my heart.

Next day, I couldn’t find the pen anywhere. Nor was in the group of gifts that I’d got nor was it in the “special box” where I used to store the most precious and beautiful commodities of mine safely!

It was visceral reminder of the fact that I may also lose things even the most delighted ones to some mysterious turn of events. Anyways, pens are so that would’ve been proven worthier if I could I shown off to my friends or I would’ve received full marks out of the test!

This story is vague in the sense of providing a moral, I accept that. But to the readers, I may put a gentle reminder of accepting what’s available right now. I would’ve cried to the verge of making my parents buy me a pack of similar pens. But that wasn’t about it.

Everyone loves a gift. Only the fortunate receive what they desired for. All that matters if you make use of the gift in whatever sense you use it for. You have the freedom to attach the “gift” of today’s story with life as well!