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?