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August 17( Do you remember)

Do you remember that night-
Raining, winds smashing, and a little dark it was for the  moment,
Do you remember that moment,
It wasn’t much of a pleasure surprise though.
[Why! Good God! The devil is here,
And I think he might come right in],
Shapelessly wrapped in face of apathy,
Do you remember that night of the blunt crime?
You were there, I know, sitting with me,
You saw it, the devil, look us in the face,
That night, ruthlessly, mercy begged,
The devil, could you remind me of that dawn?
Was it (he) there ,inside, within us?
Breathing perhaps or probably rotten away,
Tell them, tell them you freak, you saw it too,
Don’t you remember the sinister within you?
One after one, everyone shall be caught,
Justice must come for the sins love made,
The guilty shall plead his forgiveness,
But the devil spares not a single lad of despair.
Call me insane, call me names,
I know they are coming for you and me,
Only I shall tell the world about it willingly,
In the meanwhile, remember the dark cold night of August 17.

Poets and her

She stands in the golden moment,
Waiting upon her ace,
An impatient, incredibly innocent, such a soul,
Stood there waiting, waiting in vain.
In the leads of hope and aspiration,
The little girl is bewildered, hoping it would come,
And while he writes words for deserted soul,
She still stands all alone.
Another scene, another time, chrome sky,
Foggy life, and she in a patient fashion,
But he is persistent, writing her fate,
In words of dull blotted vision.
Signs show her the future yet she is adamant,
And eventually they will meet, destined to be,
When he writes last of her breath,
And she, innocent as she is, still waiting patiently absorbing this night.
Call the man devious but the voice within you knows,
Each poet is an artist and artists must always lie,
On the face of absurdity and polish the truth,
Though the flavor is neither for you nor the youth,
I hope you see well- it being God’s honest truth.

Dimly lit insanity

The dimly lit room of memories,
Where the warriors of today come occasionally,
I rest in those walls of hysteria,
Where these absurdities don’t bother me anymore.
We’ve come long back in time,
Us; me and my better half, well, in those times at least,
It comes as a surprise all together,
Why the other half, the never-so-good exists?
Pack your suitcase for the journey,
From the world of reality, take nothing!
If at all the room of memories find you,
Stay there, eternal and let the skin erode.
For today, the sickness we have must go
In the horizon, lay still and break the ugly canvas,
And come clean with triumph and joy,
Wisdom not necessarily with the wise.
Paint the colors bright, paint your own memories,
For once in a while reality may pinch,
But all other times, happy that are, memories may
Yield the risk on being ignited with Insanity.

Lampsten Prison

And all of us we’d sing in chorus,

As a symbol of our resistance,

“Lampsten prison, O Lampsten Prison,

Let me go, I am for a good reason……”

Read more on

http://www.wattpad.com/13869379-what-about-you-lampsten-prison

An artist is a fragile heart. If you’ve ever come across anyone in late 60s or 70s with sunk heart (for they know of all the illusions this world serves to us) which I am quite sure you have, then such an heart that they posses is an artist. I often find myself short of words describing the sentiments of another fellow artist.
Now I am not saying the rest of world is heartless, I am merely acknowledging my belief that a part of it stands out than the others in sentimental sphere of life.
This is an unedited work (forgive me for that) which is very close to my heart. You may or may not love it, you may or may not understand it, and you may or may not cry with it, but somewhere, sometime in life everyone has been to Lampsten prison. Figuratively.

Farmer From Fraternity

I am that subtle farmer from fraternity,

who unfortunately stepped on today.

The initial hand was approval,

Not much longer, I felt suffocating.

 

I, from there came mistakenly,

Must I belong here at all?

I, like those suffering crisis,

Am too taken dully by harsh stone sentiments.

 

This petty world of today it grows

On being enslaved to those robotic emotions.

Should you practice such dear world,

Call for tablet as such in stores.

 

I like them pour my heart on the street,

My ego being treated too roughly.

Nearly every time I pondered,

What defines rock bottom for such.

 

Sometimes I feel pity. On and off,

For you and for me;

You being such we hate,

I being such that’ll never escape.

 

Diseased! We’re trapped in this age of lust.

And I, I seek what the archaeologists look for,

Someone said last when they saw it was 1960s ,

Love, not today save it for poor babies.

 

Recovery

Last night I got in something disastrous,

Lamentably, I was hit hard by a storm.

All my belongings, all my work,

Drained with  the hardship wave.

I, I was calm yet restless,

I couldn’t understand the instantaneous wrath,

How merry things could be,

and yet in a moment, part of a storm.

 

Time is omniscient,

It waits for none,

I call it my systematic guard,

For he knows when.

 

And no, I wasn’t his exception,

My fairy tales had their time.

And no longer should the world wait,

For everything has its time.

 

It came out of nowhere,

And robbed my easy-go life.

Though I had a little presumption why,

something hasn’t been right in a while.

 

Minutes after it was gone,

Nothing, nothing ever stayed.

That merciless storm, it stole,

Made me broke in golden days.

 

Months after suffocation,

Literally agitated and hallucinated,

Today after seven full months,

I stand still, I recovered though.

 

And though past weeks were hard,

it all makes sense once mentally awake,

He who holds on to his possessions,

will never be remembered along.

 

Each day that went by,

I lived in fear with embarrassed truth,

I, being the part of this society,

Held on; my pride weighed enough.

 

How I curse the society that laughed,

disgraced me being broke.

None of them cared to know,

What went wrong, was it even at all, my fault?

 

And by my fate, I rose enough again,

Though not much than before,

I was obliged to my life to let me rise,

But do they ever get enough?

 

For me I am glad for everything,

And yes I was to fall for once.

I feel so alive; getting back up,

They wont understand and neither do I bother enough.