Skip to main content

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…
Post a Comment

Should I write a love poem, a life poem, or death poem today?

 Should I write

A love poem,

A life poem,

Or death poem today?

I ponder over this,

Looking at the sunrise between hills of hope,

Drinking the wine of futility,

Puffing cigars of boredom.

The sun is still behind those hills.

And something comes up in me,

Like a Neanderthal;

Smart, yet not lasting.

Thoughts flash like lightning

That shakes the earth without much sound.

Maybe I should write about the pandemic.

But it does not come from the heart.

Maybe I should write some motivation.

But that too doesn’t come from the heart.

The water shouldn’t leak through the branches

Of a fallen tree.

The water should collect long enough

So that the tree will be washed away.

Should I write

A love poem,

A life poem,

Or a death poem today?

Why don’t I write about that girl I met.

No.

For that, poetry is not enough.

I’ll need a paragraph.

But she's a dirty toilet always having the cover down

When I’m urgent,

Letting me pee everywhere else

And making me feel guilty for a crime I know

No one will know about,

To put it shortly.

So skip her.

Should I write

A love poem,

Life poem,

Or death poem today?

This apple needs a knife in it

To make juices flow.

This fish needs its bowl broken

To escape down the drain.

This grass is too comfortable for me.

Maybe I should sit on a stove

And burn my behind

So that I’ll feel the pain

To write about it.

Maybe I should

Go to a funeral, poke my eyes and cry,

And hope I feel bad

So that I can write.

All this comfort

Is too much for me.

Maybe I’ll sit here uninspired

And write a poem about being uninspired,

Without any inspiration.

And it'll be the best crap I’ve ever written.

Maybe I should....

Oh..

Wait...


Did I just write a poem?






Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

I'll tell her

 I want to tell her, But she might be seeing me as a friend. I want to tell her, But what if she doesn't like it. I've always been that dreamy kid Sitting in some corner, On some bench, Ignored, Marked as absent by the teacher. I've always been that dreamy kid Everyone gossips about. No one has come close. No one has the courage To look into my eyes and see the lava Popping bubbles in me. No one has the courage To look at these hanging spikes of ice, Waiting to fall on the young deer with broken legs. But she saw it. She doesn’t feel the heat, But she at least counts the popping bubbles. She doesn’t feel the heat, But she's the only one who wants to. She'll push me downhill And I’ll break a rib or two. But the spikes of ice won’t fall on me. I’ll break a rib or two. But she'll take this young deer home, Wrap him in a blanket And put him near the fireplace. I want to tell her. And I have to tell her, Because she's too smart  To understand what I feel. She too...
Post a Comment
Read more

Magic and logic

 A white horse with wings Can come out of the ocean, Cats afraid of water Can develop a taste for fish, Bats dying on power lines  Still roam around at night. Logic is not enough in this world. Logic is not enough When a rhinoceros chases you through the Savannah. Nature steps in And tells you to run for your life. It doesn’t tell you to wait And make a trap in the sand. Maybe The weird is just what has not become logic yet. But Should we make it logic? Should we really ooze out the magic in everything? We have become Too smart. We have become Too selfish. We have become  Too organised, Too fixed our ways. And we don’t see the magic in anything.
Post a Comment
Read more

Can't death come quick?

 A flower fell off a bouquet, And someone stepped on it. And they all went about with their business. But I can’t help but stare at it; The act of hastening death. Everyone went about their business. But I can’t help but stare at it; The dewless petals, The red colour blackening with the creeping shadow of death, The stalk separated from the head Like with a guillotine. It might have been plucked from it's family, From the other flowers. But it's okay. They'll die as well. It's just that this flower will die faster. But in this world where everything happens in a rush, Can’t death do the same?
2 comments
Read more