Graveyard of Dreams

This poem is a commissioned work for a friend, goodluck dude!

I can hear your shrill sirens of your beating heart,
I can feel we drift far way, far apart.
I can feel your frail hands holding me together,
I can feel your love fading into a blur.

I know I let you down,
I know I raged while you were around.
I know I became a slave of the evil inside.
I know I couldn’t be beside.

I know I let our dreams die,
Die in the graveyard of dreams.
While I hold this Hennessy, cold,
Pouring on the grave of our dream.

I wish I could call you now,
Even though it’s 1 o’clock, I just want to say ciao.
I’m shattered from the ground,
I’m crying a stream, I’m getting drowned.
I wish I could hold you now,
Even though it’s 1 o’clock, I think of you and wow.

It’s the price I need to pay,
Every second I think of the day,
I met you, I loved you, I kissed you,
I was a monster, a ghost but you knew,
You gave me a chance but I blew,
Blew it apart, you left me with a heavy adieu.

I wish I could hold you now,
Even though it’s 1 o’clock, I think of you and wow.

Just Kidding

They said I’m just a kid with a noisy mind speaking out loud without thinking.

“Hopeless and irritating”, they cursed.

Some raised voices, some raised hands to beat some maturity into me.

Few sympathized.

“Poor kid”, they pitied.

You see — I’m an adult.

I love being a kid. I loved playing video games in arcades, loved joking about silly stuff, loved sketching, loved licking cream from my hands.

I guess. I guess I loved a little too much.

I still do.

“What’s up dude? Why are you always being a jerk” — sometimes I daydream and frequently I imagine myself being angry at Time.

Time.

If you’re a kid promise me that you’ll make a pinky promise with Time. Don’t let it run away from you. Hold hands. Love each other. Hug. Kiss.

Sadly, there’s a problem.

Time isn’t a good friend. It’s bad company. It’s naughty, it’s crazy. It doesn’t get any presents from Santa.

Time doesn’t want you.

Someday Time told me — I know I have let you down and I’m not going to apologize. I don’t owe you anything.

I cried, cried hard.

When my palms become warm by my tears dropping hard — I realized. I know it’s going to be alright.

I need to believe in me. I need to let go of time. Break the promise. You know what I learnt after so many fights with Time?

You are Time.

Just kidding, go fuck yourself. I have got work to do.

Don’t you?

DowryCoin Bride

The end syllable “coin” had struck a considerable interest in the bridegrooms, fat and near bald father.

As he pursed his lips and rose his spectacle just up to look into his phone about Bitcoin…

…it hit him hard.

He was about to get rich, he dreamt, he drooled. He thought of all the scented toilet paper he could buy, the white gold for his missus and a majestic flat for the family….

…and soon found out the call he was in, had gone silent.

He wouldn’t allow this opportunity to pass like his playful habits of passing gas in crowds…

…fat thumbs which had committed sins because of greed, gluttony and lust, began furiously dialing the numbers of the Bitcoin bride…

…the reply he got was an eerie, static line at the other end, he dialed again and again and with passing time, a chill ran through his senile spine..

..through the window he could see the near frozen haze of the evening as the sun went down…it was cold but he was sweating hard….

..finally the static gave away to his misery and he heard a woman’s voice..

…“hello?”, said the calm female voice, “I missed you so much!”… his eyes bulged, the very same mouth which acted like a sword, many times, had lost it’s voice..

…a feeble gasp accompanied by horror escaped that vile mouth which made the tobacco soaked teeth clearly visible..

“I missed you so much! papa!”

Right in the wall, up the corded phone, hung the picture of this daughter – his dead daughter decorated by flowers and respected by the pious paste of sandalwood.

Angel of a Demon

The best days of mine were spend in the arms of a beautiful women.
Mom, why do I cry when your arms are around me?

I don’t cry, mother. I laugh.
These tears are just cinders of love burning in the middle of the campfire which is my heart.

For the best times to come and those which already have swayed away, I love thee from every dimension my heart echoes its beats.

The nights of sleep you sacrificed, the days of pain you endured, the best you have left for me.

I am nervous. I’m scared.

The first cry and laugh in your womb, the first touch of love, the first look in my eye, the first emotional bloom.

The reflection of evil, the carcass of love, the flower of the night, the force of the wild.

The blood on the floor. The tears littered around. The dark seeping through.

The maladies of life. The fear in me. The joke of the people. The strangeness around me. Oh mom, I’m scared of the venomous rife.

Days pass by.
And age creeps into.
Soon it’s goodbye.
Never want that memory tattoo.

Oh mom, shine on me. Shine on me. Shine on me.
The music has gone slow and silent, I can hear my heart.

My fingers tremble as I write and my soul shivers while I think.
Every emotion is a mirror of a malice. And every evil scattered has love inside.

What a demon am I for an angel like you?

I love you.

This Dusshera

October. Autumn freshness. Killer fireworks. Nostalgic sweets. Vibrant colours. Dusshera.

This festival begs to be written for the memories, the color, the smiles of everyone is so beautiful. And something beautiful needs to be preserved.

Rhythm of peoples hearts. There’s so much beauty in them. From babies to old people, hearts tell a lot of lovely stories. This Dusshera, let me tell mine.

Against the dark backdrop of poverty and sadness that suck life like lice from the dirty social community tangled like filthy hair, India still has got hope.

That light inside kids who sleep hungry, that mother who bakes the rotis in swirling ashes for her kids in spite her lungs forming tears, that father who forgets the difference of sweat and blood to put food on the table, every single person who suffer for the evil are so tightly tied together in valiant threads, which weave out a proud fabric.

Reality. The fabric of life, spiced with a pinch of cruelty. The end.

Festivals don’t allow ends to be this grim, especially Dusshera.

Slum kids enjoy the songs, the fair as heartily as the rich bastards.

Sweets eaten by my postman are of same sweetness and rather more lovely and memorable than the sweets eaten by the rich bastards.

The bokeh of rainbow lights dancing in everyones irises that night doesn’t differentiate between rich and poor.

History says Dusshera is the festival where light defeats darkness. Good prevails the bad. Evil dies. Angels are born. But in the end that’s not what Dusshera is about. It’s everyone being happy equally and smiling wide.

Really wide.