Pity On My Expectation!

My understanding never exceeds my expectation,
This is how I built my world around.
A rising Sun, it never disguises my sight
Neither the dying Moon,
They all charm me, and
I live my life, thoroughly understood!

But my understanding, it precedes my existence
I know the honest contemplation:
It survives amidst the ruins of livelihood
Again my understanding, it surrenders to the existence.

My expectations are limited;
‘A simple breathe in the fresh air,
Few threads of fibre, and
A warm wet kiss’,
And my understanding forbids me all the qualms!

So, how do I go about living, in my existence?

Every night, I burn myself, bit by bit
Not to arouse any further temptation that
They heartily called life.
I wanted to burn myself,
Not because I can’t sleep
Nor because I am afraid of the awaiting Morning
But only because,
There isn’t enough love to satiate my hunger
And there isn’t not enough prejudice in my favour
To love me, like I love myself.

In fact, I am hungry and this is my understanding
And I am afraid if it will exceed my expectation.

An Inconsequential Occasion Called Life!

I stand alone,
In front of a disdained mirror, and
Tried calling myself a name
But a voice within said:
“He is no more!”
I respect its earnest disposition,
But my invocation was left unanswered;
May be it was a different alibi:
I stand there and it stood nowhere.

This isn't a poem on life, but on the occasion.

Life Vs. Dead!

My soul wails:
“I am dying”,
And my eyes, all red
Try to weep, but the mirror;
It smiled back.

This is only a life
I thought thus,
And I carry on living
Day after day!

Please, I should die,
Life should never be spent in mercy
Not even in our own shadow.

Thus, I wanted to die again…
Snow flakes and cleavages
And the impending kiss;
Yes, I have nothing more,
For a life,
Except the beauty of it
And its procreation
For another life!

A Dead Man's Poem!

I have a dead body
And it lives with me
The face reads contemplation
The body wears introspection
But it has no name?

Help me identify this body:
I am not a curator of dead bodies, nor
The merchant of dead.
Help me identify this body,
Or at least, help me give it a name:
I think, I am a social being
I should know who is he, and
I want to see how he would have ignored the name!

Tell me,
Will you be comfortable living with an unknown person?
Anyway, let me tell you what I think:
This is a simple understanding
I have had friends
They all have names
And their bodies, it all represents
Who I known them to be?
Some even died of generosity
And some even ostracize their names,
May be out of humility
But I still remember them all,
With a stroke of a word.

But this body,
Lying idle next to me;
Now, I am weary of it’s presence,
Sometimes, it stinks like my body
Sometimes, it reminds me of my lost body.

Oh, I forgot to introduce myself
I have no name
And my body was lost too.

Voice Of A Lousy Timid!

So, here I am, again with few blurts
Look closely, you will see the fizz in the slit
That’s not the blame,
But only an upshot from a night’s stay.

Blurts, in a civilized society, is only a froth
With or without passion.
And the noise it fills, is yet another excuse;
You know, the bastards and their holy wars,
Who really cares if the noise shields the gunshots?
Anyway, a slit was there
And those blurts within the cultural paradigm;
Not yet done, the fizz in the air
And the blemish within the pretext of servitude.

For me, they are just blurts, like my poems
Excuses, nuances and humanity.
So, few more blurts, few more slits
And the corresponding night,
That hardly brings a Good Morning,
It has few more pages to lived by.
For me, it is an upshot, and
My blurts are ever ready for the occasion.

Voice of a lousy timid, I guess!

The Lamp-post, My Sweetheart!

A dirty lamp-post that I called my sweetheart,
It stood there, waiting for me
Every night, in a raunchy street.

Through the canteen, I passed by
And the undisclosed infatuation and the pervert thereof
Chide me every single night, and my humility, so humbled
Hug it so tight; it refuses to let me go.

Thus it became my sweetheart.

A step aback and a glance
Moments later,
My wife back home,
Her warm beguile
And some splendid creatures in the lawn,
They all forbid me my domestication with the lamp-post;
They all afraid, I am alone
And I wonder how do they know!

By the infidels,
They called it the blot, but
For me it is a replenish theme on life.
By the faithful,
They called it passion, but
For me it is dream-song.

It stood there, all by itself
Asking questions and looking for an asylum.

It is indeed my sweetheart.

How She Became An Exhibitionist!

If beauty ever could killed,
I would never have had a scare.
Rather, I would have succumbed:
No more, no less, and
The beauty could have been blamed.
But I knew,
Shadows are there to stay,
Like a puff on ramp;
Few taunts and moments of ecstasy.
There I should have known
Even prayers could have gone awry, all wrong!

Did I know:
A heaven is not enough,
For me, seven colours wasn’t enough either.
A gaze was there, followed by
A grave, in silence.

Beauty, is all like that
Imperfections, tears and eyeballs;
Dolls, hairs and wails.

At least, she became an exhibitionist!

So I write!

In the heart,
She loves to read and write.

Once, she talked about words
That breathed like her soul;
Initially, I was confused:
How do she breathes
And if there are enough words
For a heart, to
Read and write.

Again,
It’s hopeless, just to think about the heart.
In fact, words are useless
If they are to be buried like corpses.

Even more,
She knew nothing;
She only talked a rhyme, all life long.

And today,
I have some words, and
A heart.

So I write.

Smiling Faces!

She will smile, but
You knew she was long dead;
A cold feeling!

What kind of poem is this?

A cold poem,
A bit of sagacity
A bit of love
And cold eyes
But lots of smiling faces;
Still a cold feeling!

I am afraid of smiling faces.