Friday, November 5, 2010

chain of thought

sometimes, i just sit, waiting for inspiration to hit me. staring down at a blank paper, willing it to give me a clue. the pen in my hand twitches, the inside of my brain itches, and my heart sighs, if it only knew.

and the paper still sitting leisurely on the desk, mocking my intent and basking in its nakedness, smirks.

the thoughts in my head swirl aimlessly, as i try to find rhymes and try to make sure they work.

a song drifts into my head as i start jotting down random lyrics.

i notice overlooked nuances and previously ignored gimmicks.

my brainwaves float away and my paper soon forgotten on the desk underneath the mess.

i think of things not on my mind and silently admit things, aloud i would not confess.

i envision that particular boy who shouldn't be on my mind

as i think that his girlfriends face appears behind.

i sadly smile and shake my head, shame on me for my thought.

as long as my thoughts are silent though, i'll thankfully never get caught.

away from the guilt, my daydream strolled.

detached from my mind, enraptured, i watched my sub conscience unfold.

i saw my musings come to life, vivacious, colorful and dancing.

i saw the life that i would lead, successful, carefree and prancing.

i wouldn't be docile or shy, i'd be headstrong yet well regarded.

i'd have all that i want, be confident and unguarded.

maybe i'll have a house, and it will have a tower,

and a beautiful green garden with lovely wild flowers.

creepers creeping the walls, covering the stone defenses.

a little forest instead of a backyard, enclosed by moats or trenches.

a fairytales starts to write itself out, starting in the forest, by a lake.

a happy mist lifts from it, surrounded by trees, forest animals, particularly a snake.

the snake suspiciously slithers from willow to willow.

its purposeful movement makes the sense of dread grow.

its destination, a lovely woman on the other end of the lake, washing her clothes.

wait, why a woman, this sexist sort of cliché is something i loathe.

so at the end of the lake waits a beautiful and lonesome man,

washing his blood-soaked clothes the best that he can.

after a nasty fight with his very own brother,

he ran away from home to look for his estranged and exiled mother.

apparently his mother had indulged in an affair.

and openly announced to to all with pride and flair.

and as the man tended to his wounds, the snake etched closer.

the man noticed his cold blooded companion and got a little marroser.

and as he was taught, he stood absolutely still and waited for it to pass.

the closer it got, he worked up a sweat and muttered something rather crass.

the snake however, surprising us all, opened its mouth and spoke.

the man himself, was so shocked, his silence never broke.

the snake had questioned why he bled, not a strange thing to ask.

but got no reply, shook his head and sighed, and continued on his nightly task.

the man he turned around, dumbfounded, but asked for help and directions,

the snake obliged, he hissed and tried, to explain in exact perfection.

then slithered along to do his duty, an act he took to be serious.

to patrol the grounds, and ask around, and report all comings and goings to his mistress.

his mistress seemed please, with this bit of news, it was something she anxiously awaited.

alone in her castle, she had been alone in this curse one had created .

a man she craved who was strong and brave, to get her out of her tower.

hoping he would find her, free her, she started to count the hours.

what happens next, i begin to ponder as i try and think of a storyline.

defeated and confused, i look for inspiration, inspiration declines.

i got so far on thought alone as i let my self wander.

and tried to remember what i had so far and retrace how i did ponder.

how did i reach a fairytale from the solemn essay i had to write.

how did i think of all these things far into the night.

how was i so foolish to loose my focus, my self scolding causing sorrow.

i panicked a little, with no sleep how would i give my exam tomorrow?

forget the fairytale, forget my house and forget that lovely boy.

forget the pristine white paper, still jeering at me, and its devious little ploy.

to haze me with its embossing demeanor and make me insecure.

wait, i must be delirious, its 3 am, what am i fighting with a paper for?


Wednesday, May 19, 2010

who am i?

who are you?

and why do you look at me so strangely. like i'm almost peculiar.

i don't think i recognize you.

why so judgmental? what business do you have here?

i don't walk funny, do i?

i used to think i walked fine till you sauntered in.

why do you still glare? do you think i'll break and cry?

well, quite honestly, chances of that are quite thin.

now what are you saying?

my clothes are funny? they aren't the right style?

well you can buy me new ones if you don't mind paying.

though this has been working for me since a long while.

are you going to comment on my hair?

is there something wrong with it too?

does it not have that precisely right flair?

wait you might be right, what do you think i should do?

should i cut it short or let it straight?

maybe dye it lighter, or a vibrant shade.

i know i'm not slender, its an ugly trait.

its fine. i can always fight the way i was made.

now whats the look for? don't you recognize me?

i'm her, not new but improved

isn't this what you wanted me to be?

why don't you respond? why do you mimic me?

why do you blink when i blink? is that a tear i see?

is the tear i see, the tear i feel roll down my cheek?

why don't you look happy? i did all this because of you?

aren't i better? transformed completely from hair to shoe?

why do you look me up and down, as i do you?

why are you so disappointed? i look just like you!

i wipe my eyes with my sparkly sleeve.

i catch your eye as you put your hand in your pocket, same as me.

fed-up of both your judgement and sorrow, we both turn around and leave.

i got rid of you. the problem is getting rid of ME.


Sunday, April 25, 2010

the illusionist


an illusion is but a story
a story is but a myth
a myth is just a lie
you reconcile yourself with

it is all the little things
the intricacies of deceit
disguised by flashy colours and that captivate you
and manipulate you to believe

the master illusionist is not one
who pulls a rabbit from his hat
or the one whose lovely assistant
disappears as the sensational act

the master illusionist is the one
who everybody thinks they know
so smart and charming, you listen to him
unaware that its all a show

they aim to please and pleased you are
that it pleases them to please
flawless teeth and eloquent words
and clothes without a crease

you believe every smile and every word and every rhyme
they flatter you, so you nod your head every single time
even if your heart hesitates, your head still holds firm
and you will follow the illusionist through every twist and turn

the illusion can be anything and everything you hold true
the illusionist, he lies, that is all he is taught to do
for everything we know is a lie, everything is a myth
everything is just a version of the truth we reconcile ourselves with

no one knows who says what
no two perceptions are ever the same
so with no truth, its all a lie
an illusionary game

Tuesday, April 20, 2010

RED

Red


A little love a little heart it is all a little red

As is little blood and a little danger and a little dead

A pretty red ribbon on a present leads to a smile so bright

A sassy red dress with the hem too high leads to a mother daughter fight


A red droplet of blood on the desk, the symptoms of a paper cut

A larger pool next to a corpse, the symptom of extreme blood lust

A bouquet of red roses in a florist’s shop, just waiting to make someone’s day

A small red ball in a happy Labrador’s mouth when he goes to play


A red skull on the electricity box to keep innocent kids alive

The red button on the x box that helps you survive

The red lipstick on a woman’s lips that make lonely men sigh

The busy button pressed during an incoming call when we tell a little lie


A juicy red apple in the Garden of Eden symbolizing the original sin

The red traffic light on the roads that keep accidents a little thin

The red bra of the hooker who he pays to fill his time

The red anger on the driver’s face when he has to pay a fine


The Red hot iron just before it takes a blow

The red hot chilly peppers when their songs begin to flow

The bright red cherries on a little girl’s frock

The bright red flags waved on a foggy dock


The red tube of toothpaste in a cup next to the sink

The delicious smell of my finest wine, I drink.

The red nail polish on the girl who’s trying to make a statement

The red ribbon express, roaming India and fulfilling their commitment


The loud red bellbottoms that once used to be famous

The red correction marks in our homework, left there to shame us.

The smooth red strokes of acrylic paint on an artist’s wall

It may be good, it may be bad but red, it is all!


good morning

the sun rose long ago, it is now bleary and drunk and drowsily withdrawing itself from the day.
he lays asleep on a messy bed, his intentions matching the evenings conviction.
a stupor settles over everyone, all thought lost, mindless dazed and wordless
and they march, the march onwards towards certain uncertainty.
the singers hum a frivolous tune, the poets try to ponder a clever oxymoron.
they cant. they are blanketed by the stupor.
the dancers half heatedly skip and jump, sashes and pirouette.
they are clocked by the lazy stupor.
the scholars make small talk, the deep end left un wandered
they are warned off by the stupor
the children play, they run barefoot and fall and get back up running again.
they are untouched by the stupor. they do not understand it.
the fiery beast groggily lays for slumber.
he rises from the sheets, stands on the cold marble floor
the inevitable stupor temporarily lifted by the cool bottle.
there is energy and ferocity and melancholy but exceptionally jolly.
goodnight?
good morning.

Saturday, April 10, 2010

world happiness quotient


how can you think when you have voices whispering in your ears?
how can you know anything without experiencing it?
who are you to judge what other do? judge yourself.
judge extensions of yourself, if they give you the right.
or just jet go of all judgement. forget black and white.
get lost in a whirlpool of colour. there are no grey areas.
there is no wrong and right, wipe out all your wounds and scars.
live liberated, uneducated, emasculated, exaggerated, unfated.
leave your ego and pride and self consciousness, leave it un-deliberated.
then, without pre conceived notions and biased emotions
look around and see colour in motion.
bright and individual, separate from situation, consequence or reality
it will give you momentary joy and hope and tranquility
find the colour when you see a beggar child on the road,
find the hue in the white seminaries-so cold
look for a tint in the overflowing landfill
notice the dye in the eyes of the hunter's kill
the pigment in the cars that crowd the streets
the shade of torn, burnt and rejected paper sheets.
and for a moment feel the joy detached from meaning or motion,
and your smile and joy will increase the worlds happiness quotient