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Loud Rain

The rain is loud now, As if a giant feet arises from the clouds To step on the river under the bridge of my heart And disturb it in such a way That the sails of ships bend, And the water touches the bridge from below, Tickling it to sorrow… The rain is loud now, But actually, it has always been like this. You were there once, And I never felt it. But now, All there is Is this sorrow That tickles me from inside, As if it wants me to laugh, Yet doesn’t let me At the same time…
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Subjectivity of art

 “Art is subjective.” They say.

And I am tired of hearing it.

They say

There is no good art,

Bad art,

Bullshit art,

Not art.

There is just art.

But no.

Good art has the heat of flame,

And the sound of broken glass cackling in it,

That will never melt.

Good art has smoke that blinds,

Yet smells of whatever was burning.

A torch without flame

Is a stick with a black cloth,

A headless match

Is no match at all.

“Art is subjective.” They say.

And I am tired of hearing it.

There is

Good art,

Bad art,

Bullshit art,

Not art.

It is which of these you like

That is subjective.



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