lying on this table
staring at me
is a monk with a pot belly
maybe he wonders
how is my ride to nirvana going
maybe he wonders
as to why instead of hymming a prayer,
i am on a war with the keyboard
maybe he reads the books I kept there
to trace where me heading
or maybe he was tired of everything around
had a hearty laugh and boom..
there was his nirvana.
I have a stack of wishes
neatly placed next to me
each one is a portal
from this far reality
the stack keeps increasing
and so does my desire
to stay far from reality
it ain’t delusional but.
It’s wise I think
to have a loose grip on reality
too much of it sucks the life out,
too less and you’re off the edge
Dust off your closet
and hack off that trophy wall
pack every one of them
and make them your prisoner
for the remaining life
if you want to be remembered
then start pinning your rejection letters
on the trophy wall of forgotten past,
till you hear every word
while sleeping.
sanity will beg you to fight
and the heart would race against mind
if even thinking about this is too much
then the smooth sea is all yours
you were not the one for untested waters
cause drowning was one of your fears.
Cold, dusted
old and black
I have seen everything
you never had
the little girl loved me
and so did her mother
but they left me here
looking for another
Now I wait
sometimes remember the tunes,
I loved their touch like anything
life now isn’t a boon
On a cliff,
I stand and see
the ocean and the horizon
playing hide and seek,
I waited for them
to dissolve into one
for the fire to extinguish,
the ashes to drown,
my soul relinquished,
but a memory still lingered somewhere
it’s not that easy
If not here, not anywhere.
Just once let the reflections
in the mirror
live and speak
curse and cry
laugh and go complete mad
for I am sure
they are dying to do so
since we started hiding
from ourselves
long ago.
I was last drowned
in the solos
of Jimmy Page
asking me
about whole lotta love
and stairways to heaven
I tried to float
but found it useless
I have seen
a few men die at peace
but a fewer listening solos.
Writings to Heaven 