Mich Wirklich

Wrote this in some 15 minutes,Mich Wirklich is German trans depicting 'Really Me'.If u have the flow your mind actually follows it. Again all i can say is that its a pure thought, an imagination of honesty.

The perplexion of thoughts,
has looped the bereavement.
I sleep close to the walls,
but can't get far enough.
I would want to die,
But i can't, i can't,
For i need to repent the sins.
They are many, too many.
The heart still pumps the blood.
Each passing day it remains red.
But the sins would change.
Like a withered forsaken leaf
that dries under the scorching sun.
I would end in solace.
Anxious and alone somewhere.
Shivering in the thoughts of my past,
hoping to forge the days back
But the truth has taste 'very sour'
It leaves your face with a red scar.

Phobia Báis

Had a nightmare last few days back, one of those haunting ones, i thought if i could heap some words out of it.

All the lonely days perished
In the search of majestic hue.
The darkness hath trapped beneath.
Personified by the enigma of closed doors.
Beyond which lie the redemption
And under which the faded light,
dissipates like an unreachable station.
Afraid to open it at the day break,
they peep through the tiny hole
of the eroded wooden chunk.
studded on the debris, the house lay.

Long long ago in the redwoods,
their anestors lay silenced and bloodless.
Who once fought the desert and the rain.
Braved the wind and the gruelling waves.
Their hirarchy passed to the land of darkness.
The land of the unknown, where no beast groan.
Their destiny rests on the holy drops,
Quarantined in the depth of hearts unknown.
That they would search for ages to come.
For which they fight the hand of almighty.
In preserving the hue, rest our dreams.
On top of which we rest our heels.
But a day they would reach the proximity
The day that mankind fears,
they would challenge the ETERNITY.

Episolarity

Here is the previous and the first literary composition of Epi series.


My darkness, my core, my unopened eyes,
I write you this on a sheet of dark matter
In a burst of electromagnetic radiation.
Forgive my poor script but I am cramped and cumbersome
On the surface of this neutron star.
Time is dragged down into lethargy
And my patience is compressed to a painful disc of anxiety.
The time is not yet right.
Time is not yet right.
I mark the moments in prison,
My anvil, my rock, my darkened lighthouse.
The moments collect on my chest, my eyes.
They are tiny, Dense.
Your rescue is distant as a star.
But am I not your magnet, your charm, your strange hero?
I will send this on the next rotation.
It is so hard to move.

Epi.........

The upcomin work of mine is the second 'Epi' series. its called 'Epiagony', Although it is not as great as 'Episolarity' but it maintains the technical touch of life. Hope u read it and like my work, Thankyou.

You and I are Disappearing

I donno how many wont weep after actually feeling this.

The cry I bring down from the hills
belongs to a girl still burning
inside my head. At daybreak she burns like a piece of paper.
She burns like foxfire
in a thigh-shaped valley.
A skirt of flames
dances around her
at dusk.
We stand with our hands hanging at our sides,
while she burns
like a sack of dry ice. She burns like oil on water.
She burns like a cattail torch
dipped in gasoline.
She glows like the fat tip
of a banker’s cigar,
silent as quicksilver. A tiger under a rainbow
at nightfall.
She burns like a shot glass of vodka.
She burns like a field of poppies
at the edge of a rain forest.
She rises like dragonsmoke
to my nostrils.
She burns like a burning bush
driven by a godawful wind.


A Poem by Yusef Komunyakaa, a professor at NYU

Ugly n divine

what do i say about this??
Its a pure thought on the flank of mind. it arises it dissipates but its never supressed.

The smell of dirt, the grave relentlessly cries,
To witness the hollow souls laid alive.
They mimic, they re fragile but immortal.
No blood no pale emotions to revive.

The syllables that never echoed the skies.
Such was thy existence tortured in filth of lie.
From gadgets to lumbar and back game.
Encompassed and stuffed they plead never again.

Some stay abreast, some parallel, some spook.
Filthy deeds, bastardy emotions wern't amongst fluke.
Purposeful, exact, it was sin infact.
Chasing them erasing them, i knew things we lacked.

How can he swallow the spark the spark that rages his conscience.
Only to presume that the ashes magnetise.
Once they were dense, stubborn, now fumes arise.
Jeopardised he sobs in hallucination of his ugly divine.

Paintbrush

this is what i wrote on 29th april '09 and im greived to portray the plight of the poor children in the war trodden zones in the world, for everyone of them these are few lines i write that describe a paint brush. You can resemble it the those kids.


I see it with my hued eyes
And swallow the poison with a deep sigh.
They dip me red, squeeze my sweat,
drown me, dry me, drench me again.

I scribe the posters and the velvet surfaces.
Make 'em dark, illuminate the faces.
Capture the breeze, hailstorm and the heat.
The scenic aura or the thunderous fleet.

It's time you understand my grief.
Gave my soul now time's too brief.
you applause me for the cause of harm.
Please rescue me from the emotionless palm.

They made me cut, swerve with diminishing touch.
The infinite reasons never seemed too much.
And all along there was a stream of rush.
All prevail the painter, who remembers the brush?