Jigsaw Pieces

I watch people and I sigh,
They all wish to be big.
Imagine my friend,
A world full of riches,
Imagine the possibilities,
Of giving each man,
Wealth of equal hand,
Who, then, will work,
And for whom I shall ask,
But why would they care?
They are the riches they dreamt.
Watch them closely,
The puppets are not to think,
The breed gives life,
To compound minds,
And sincere peace,
But must it all come,
Only today, dear child?
Then what would the master,
Teach with gratitude,
And what would the life,
In it’s nutshell behold?
I have a place for each knight,
For a knight is no king,
And a king is no God,
And God, is not in this era.
I have a piece of the pie,
But I can’t have it all,
I must die then,
With attempts of gluttony.
Each piece commands his own way,
And so the road starts to show,
Slowly with ease and faith,
The jigsaw must unfold.

An Ambiguous Idea

Another day has passed.,
As I lay here restless,
Finding my breath in a room of insanity,
She only left ages ago.
The old people in here say,
“It’s all life and its lessons “,
Wrapped in white attires with an identity of dumbness,
Sure! They must know life only but better.
Who are we to judge or change,
God has made this world a big place,
Everything that happens and that shall happen,
Who are we to ever know it all?
And thus she went out of my reach,
My only hope for that line of sanity broke,
And with silence came alcohol of relief,
And being wasted was the only way out.
Why does it happens I ask deliberately,
Are we here to deal with life and its ever common notion.
Isn’t He, the creator, supposed to protect us,
And if we are to learn only, why shouldn’t we have an obvious stand?

Photograph

I saw a photograph
A sceneric beauty
A man awed
A constant euphoria.
They took it long back
Somewhere in their childhood
Young men grown old
The photograph still a sceneric beauty.
The rush of life is a hassle
Only some save certain treasure
My hands tried to feel
The photograph of my own birth.
I am now but only smooth
My emotion runs on these papers
The photographs of tomorrow
Only makes me laugh a little longer.

An array of emotions

Of all the things happening right now
On this terribly lost and cold earth
It isn’t hard to see the nector of love
Cradled by our fantasies.
At least I see it clear as a memory
The love that I saved for your embraces since long
Wanting to be touched by rays of tenderness
Humility must not come between us.
Can’t you see it my Siara
This love in my deeds that I hope to get
This love in my deeds that I hope you see
Is it that hard to see at all?
Why wouldn’t you come for me
That man in black must be a real surprise
I think not of your lustrous pleasure
I hope he gives it all away anyways.
Why must a man like me suffer
Should you come in this moment
Why must the devil run to his doom
Must I win only today?
My win is nothing suprising
But everything is, was, and will be
Don’t come near me only today
For today you are only a polluted sadist sack of bullshit.

An array of emotions

so you want to be a writer?

so you want to be a writer?

by Charles Bukowski
if it doesn’t come bursting out of you in spite of everything,
don’t do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your heart and your mind and your mouth and your gut,
don’t do it. if
you have to sit for hours staring at your computer screen or hunched over your typewriter searching for words,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it for money or fame,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it because you want women in your bed,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit there and rewrite it again and again,
don’t do it.
if it’s hard work just thinking about doing it,
don’t do it.
if you’re trying to write like somebody else,
forget about it.
if you have to wait for it to roar out of you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.
if you first have to read it to your wife or your girlfriend or your boyfriend or your parents or to anybody at all,
you’re not ready.
don’t be like so many writers,
don’t be like so many thousands of people who call themselves writers,
don’t be dull and boring and pretentious,
don’t be consumed with self- love. the libraries of the world have yawned themselves to sleep over your kind.
don’t add to that.
don’t do it.
unless it comes out of your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would drive you to madness or suicide or murder,
don’t do it.
unless the sun inside you is burning your gut,
don’t do it.
when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by itself and it will keep on doing it until you die or it dies in you.
there is no other way.
and there never was.